As Vast as the Universe
by Galythia
Summary: In the words of Arthur Kirkland: "I am not a writer. And this is not a tragedy. But if you are interested, then please, allow me to tell you the story of how Alfred F. Jones enchanted my heart. And hopefully, by the end of it, he will have enchanted yours too." (Sweethearts Week 2013) Warning: it IS a tragedy, though there is a way to read just fluff, which I have explained within.
1. First

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia in any way (although that's good, otherwise this story might actually be canon, and you all would cry)

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**Prologue**

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_I've never fully established with myself whether or not it it's a good idea to write this down, but some part of me feels like I'm not doing this story enough justice simply by keeping it to myself. There are bad parts, there are good parts; there are parts of which I am proud, and there are parts of which I am so utterly ashamed that they will __likely _make me cry whenever I think of them, even to this day.

_But perhaps this is where I will lay it all bare, finally get my tale out and off of my chest. I do not expect anybody to read this, seeing as it is only a collection of my thoughts and memories, rather than a coherent story that is meant to be published. But in case someone _does_ end up finding it, then, well..._

_Let me start off by saying that this is not a tragedy. That's very important._

_This is not a tragedy._

_This is a story about love. Love of only the highest caliber, so great that it transcends not only time, but also the hearts of those involved within the story itself. It will touch you, almost as much as it has affected me and my entire life. I can honestly say that the majority of who I am today stems from this story, and though I won't reveal all the details, because I think I'd like to take some with me to the grave, what I can and will reveal will still be bits and pieces of my soul exposed to the world._

_So please, do not take it lightly._

_To some, this story may seem petty. It may seem unimportant—trifling, even. I will admit that this story doesn't sing of love as famous as that of Antony and Cleopatra, or as tragic as that of Tristan and Isolde. But I rather like it that way, to be honest. As Mark Twain once said, "My books are water; those of great geniuses are wine. Everybody drinks water."_

_This story is that water—that is to say that it will not only touch you, but I hope it will also nourish you, warm your heart, and in the end, make you stronger than you ever were before. I would say that I hope you never have to go through what I did, but that's not true. My story may be filled with "tragedy," but I think it's actually the contrary. My life is a slew of happy moments, of only the most joyous and celebrated type. Dotted somewhere in there are a few sad parts, but on the whole, I wish that everybody could have the love that I had. But no one ever will, because no one but me had the pleasure of loving him. And you know what? I will gloat about that privilege for all eternity._

_I am no writer, so do not expect "greatness" on the level of William Shakespeare or Lord Byron when you read this. Frankly, to me, this story is even greater than all tales that such admired authors have ever written, combined, if only for its content._

_But of course, I am biased, because this is a story about love. MY love, to be exact. My love for a boy who shone as brightly as any day in July, laughed as loudly as that bell that signals the end of a school day, and captured my heart like a set of color blind eyes takes in the world—that is to say, in his own unique and completely beautiful way._

_As I've said, I am not a writer. And this is not a tragedy. But if you are interested, then please, allow me to tell you the story of how Alfred F. Jones enchanted my heart. And hopefully, by the end of it, he will have enchanted yours too._

_This is a story that needs to be told. A story about love._

_Love that knows no boundaries._

_With kindest regards,  
__Arthur Kirkland_

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**Author's Comments:**

And here begins the multichapter fic that I wrote completely in the span of only twenty four hours, all in the spirit of Sweethearts Week (first theme, "Always Beside You"). Since I wrote it quickly, I didn't go back and edit much, so you're seeing it in its raw form (most of my other work goes up after hours of editing and rewriting).

Despite what "Arthur" wrote,** this fic _is_ a** **tragedy**, so you've been warned. There isn't much of a happy ending. But if you want the non-tragic version of it, simply stop after the chapter titled "Faithfully," and you will have a sweet, fluffy fic of pure love and bliss. =3=

And also, this fic moves really fast. If I had more time, I would have loved to go into more depth with tons of chapters in between the ones that I wrote, but alas, twenty-four hours isn't all that much time! So I'm sorry if it feels rushed.

Other than that, enjoy! Happy reading!

- Galythia

P.S. The story also has a running theme of Alfred's middle name, which is never revealed. But the chapter titles will all start with "F" as well, for this reason.


	2. Fundamental

**Fundamental**

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The first time we ever touched, my hands were freezing. They were so cold to the point of appearing stark white, with a vague translucence about the edges that terrified me to look at. And so I didn't. Instead, I focused upon my violent shivering, my clothing drenched with muddy rainwater as I sat upon the ground, feeling too sorry for myself to do much else. My ribs were still aching where they had punched me a few times, each throb now an insistent reminder of how much I was disliked by my fellow classmates.

I was British, and somehow, that instantly made me a pretentious, tea-guzzling prick. I was apparently high up above the rest, or at least I was supposedly arrogant enough to consider myself as such. (Although, to be honest, I agreed with them on this one. Who would want to be on the same level as those belligerent and idiotic fools?)

Sure, we were but fourth graders at the time, and I had only just moved to Cambridge (Massachusetts, that is) that year, so everything and everyone was new. But if I had to fall down ten rungs of intelligence (and English coherence, mind you) just to be accepted, then I could do without friends. School was for educational enrichment, anyway, not for forming relationships that seldom survived into middle school, let alone beyond. Friends were unnecessary.

Or so I thought.

But as I sat on the ground behind the school, class having already been dismissed, rain still pouring down even more mercilessly than before, I had second thoughts about that strong conclusion. I mean, I didn't need someone there to defend me in future fights. I didn't need someone to comfort me and tell me that I was okay. I _knew_ I was okay, and I'd know myself better than anyone else would.

I just needed someone who wouldn't have minded sitting beside me in the rain for a little while. We didn't need even need to talk. Just sit. Heck, even one of those idiots would have been fine, as long as they didn't touch me again.

That was when I felt the rain pounding on my head lighten up, and when I saw another shadow draping itself around my pitifully small one upon the ground. Drenched clothing never showed off my lanky and angularly sharp body all that well.

Glancing up, I encountered a face I had seldom ever seen before, because second graders and fourth graders rarely mixed. But he had always caught my attention in those moments whenever we _did _occupy the same space. There was something inexplicably attractive about him—and not in the looks sense, mind you, though he wasn't lacking in that quarter either, even at an incredibly young age. I can't explain it even now, but Alfred simply had this quality that drew people to him, not because he seemed like he had an interesting story to tell, but because he seemed like he'd listen to your story with his full attention, whether it was interesting or not.

"I can't tell if you're crying," he observed, his voice squeaky yet oddly mature, "or if there's just a lot of rain on your face." His face scrunched up in that adorable way I'd soon come to learn he'd make whenever he was puzzled.

Well, there _was_ a lot of rain, I agreed, though I could see now why it had seemed to stave off a bit just then. Alfred was holding something above my head to block the drops, though it was clearly no umbrella, for I was still getting wet just the same. It was a basketball, which I figured might have been the only thing he could find quickly on school grounds, or perhaps it was his own. Whatever the reason, spherical objects weren't exactly known for being effective blockers against water, but it was the thought that counted. This fool was getting himself soaked and not really helping me in my freezing state either, but he somehow did the job that I was sure not many people could have done in that instance.

I was smiling.

"Perhaps it's both," I admitted, my voice weaker than intended. What could I say? I could only be strong for so long; this was my day to wallow in self pity. But Alfred apparently had other plans.

His stomach grumbled and he frowned, checking his wrist for the time before he realized he had no watch.

"Half past a freckle," he muttered seriously. "Time for some food, don't you think?"

I assessed him carefully, wondering just how odd it was that a second grader could be almost my size, speak with almost the same level of vocabulary complexity, and yet still seem so innocent and immature, despite it all.

What a strange character.

"It's not like you can take me out to a late lunch," I joked, smiling nevertheless. "You're barely old enough to legally sit in swings on your own, I bet."

Alfred pouted, that basketball clearly putting a strain on his tiny arms by now. The rain was heavy, and it didn't seem to be letting up soon. Alfred opened his mouth to reply, but he let out a sneeze instead. Thank god for that rain; I didn't want to know if any of his boogers actually landed on me (even though it _was_ for my sake that his hands were occupied).

Sniffling, Alfred grinned. "Mom should be here soon," he explained. "What about yours?"

"I walk home," I replied, "though I'm not supposed to be back until hours from now. I told her I'd be at the library."

Alfred laughed, a bright sound that rang across the deserted back of the school, brightening up the otherwise grey afternoon. I could already feel my chest relax and my waist wound heal from just that pealing laughter. What _magic_, I thought.

"I don't think the library likes soaking wet people near their books," Alfred said, mirth still coloring his words. He retracted the ball and held out his hand. "I'm sure you're welcome over if you'd like." His expression fell a bit. "We should take a look at that stomach of yours too."

I blinked and looked away in embarrassment. Just when this relationship seemed to be starting off well, of course something had to have come along and ruin it. I mentally prepared myself for merciless ridicule once again as I addressed the bullying problem.

"You saw them—"

"Nope," Alfred replied with a telltale shake of his head. "Saw nothin' of any sort. You were just holding your waist protectively," he reassured me, though he must have been stupid if he thought a fourth grader—_this_ fourth grader, to be specific—couldn't see thorough his lie. Nevertheless, I was too appreciative that he had let it slide to argue the point.

I nodded, both in acknowledgment of the surprisingly mature and rational reprieve he had just paid me, and in agreement to the fact that a trip to the library seemed to be quite far fetched that day. I would hate to touch books in my soaking state as much as any librarian would faint at the sight of me.

Thus, I took his hand, his fingers searing against my shivering, nearly numb digits. He pulled me up, though I hardly needed the help from someone four fifths my size. I winced, unbending at the waist. He held my hand steady the whole time, and I marveled at the heat radiating from him, despite his ever dampening clothes. Was this level of warmth even healthy?

Alfred used his grip on my hand to carefully guide me as we began to walk, his gait decidedly proud, as if he was leading some important figure through a crowd, and it was his duty to keep me safe. It was quite endearing, to be honest, and my smile just kept getting wider.

"Arthur Kirkland," he murmured, surprising me out of my thoughts.

"Yes?" He knew my name?

"Nothing," he replied, turning back to look at me with a grin. "I was just saying it. Out loud." He laughed. "My name is Alf—"

"Alfred Jones," I replied. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised before, since I knew his name too, having inquired once or twice about it in the past. Plus, it was merely my duty to know my underclassmen, right?

He paused and looked at me briefly, his eyes wide open with surprise. But after a moment, his expression broke into a blinding, beaming smile. I'm guessing he was proud that a fourth grader knew who he was, for he started walking again with even more of a strut than before.

We reached the front of the school, my ribs still aching but somehow soothed by Alfred's comforting touch. No one was in sight, for the storm had caused everyone to rush home as fast as they could. We might have been the last ones left, save the teachers still inside the school (who I thought were quite irresponsible for letting a second grader wander around unsupervised).

"It's Alfred_ F._ Jones," he said, somewhat out of the blue. He stopped at the sidewalk, my hand still in his.

"Pardon?" I assumed we were now just waiting for his mother to come. Nowhere in this situation did it strike me as odd that I was going over to the house of a kid whom I had only just formally met seconds ago. We just sort of... fit. Naturally. As if this encounter had been fated all along.

Alfred glanced quickly at me. "Alfred _F._ Jones. My middle name."

"What does the 'F' stand for?" I asked, not letting go of his hand. Honestly, I didn't even notice it anymore, and even if I had, his warmth was far too alluring to give up for any petty, "socially acceptable" reason. I was Arthur Kirkland; I did what I wanted.

"Stand for? Nothing. Something. Everything," he replied absentmindedly, peering down the lane. I could see a small white car in the distance, coming down the road. Alfred smiled, and I knew then that that was his ride—_our_ ride.

Alfred turned back to me. "It stands for anything I want it to," he explained somewhat excitedly, as if it were some great secret he had never unveiled to anybody before. It sure felt like it, and I subconsciously leaned in to listen further.

"It depends on situation and mood," Alfred murmured with a clandestine smile. "And you know what I think it stands for right now?" His lips widened in an even brighter grin.

"What?"

"'Friends,'" he replied softly, completely smug with himself.

He gave my hand a squeeze as I blushed and looked away. Gosh that word suddenly sounded so nice and inviting when he said it.

I thought back to just a little before, when I had merely been hoping for somebody to sit with me in the rain, just to keep me company. I had been so desperate that any idiot would have done the job, but I got so much more. I got a pair of willing ears, a shelter (both physically and mentally), and a person who, in the span of a few minutes, already considered himself to be my friend.

In other words, I got Alfred.

It wouldn't be until later that I would learn that he had been moved up two grades, his intelligence far excelling what the school could offer him at the conventional grade levels. He actually ended up in my class, of all places, and we continued to be fast friends, pulled together by how much we shared, but also by how much everyone else ignored and resented us.

Alfred was the object of others' intense envy, his intelligence defining him in the eyes of both his peers and his teachers, despite the multi-dimensional, fun-loving kid that lay underneath (whom I am proud to say I got to know quite well). And of course you already know why I was ostracized, and that alienation only became worse as people began to resent me for being his friend as well, in addition to my Anglican (_well-raised_) ways.

But I didn't care. I had never really cared in the first place, but now I was completely and utterly free of any and all doubt. No worries, because I had Alfred Fantastic Jones by my side. Smartest kid in the grade, but the biggest idiot I have ever had the pleasure to meet. A wonderful idiot, but an idiot nevertheless. My idiot.

Life was good—and it only got better.

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**Author's Comments:**

I'm writing about Cambridge because it's where I mainly went to school. And since I don't have time to do much research, I can only go with what I know well enough.

- Galythia


	3. Familiar

**Familiar**

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His touch against my skin was always strong and impassioned, much like his heart and his mind. It was no different this time when he shot me one of our usual high fives, only a slap of the palms together, but somehow no one could do it as well as Alfred could.

But then again, no one could do _anything_ as well as Alfred could: captain of the football team, first place winner of the country's national science fair, taking astrophysics classes at Harvard already (our high school was practically next door), boyfriend to one of the most desirable girls in school (for her well-rounded appeal, of course; Alfred wasn't shallow), and, best of all, center forward on the high school's _real_ football team.

And why was that last part so great? Because I was captain of said team, and practice meant that I got to see him every day during the season (not that we didn't find ways to hang out at all times of the year). Alfred, usually so busy and frantic with his endless extracurriculars, was mine to order around for three hours every day after school. Everybody's wet dream, I know, but too bad I didn't swing that way. I couldn't have been happier for him and his girl (on whom I'll admit even I had a slight crush for a while).

We were right in the middle of a game, in which Alfred had just scored the _nth_ goal of the match, with a nice assist from me, if I may say so myself. We simply worked together well, our minds so in sync that I only needed to glance up for a fraction of a second to know where to make a pass so that it'd get directly to his eager feet. Our high school had better considered itself lucky in the face of how utterly _cool _we made football—soccer—out to be. Once we started gaining trophies, winning tournaments, we started getting funding and attention, and football had been a strong part of the school papers ever since.

I watched as Alfred ran off to take his position for the starting kick once again. I always took center mid, almost in my own way of saying "I've got your back, so you just go for it." I don't know if he ever realized just how much I enjoyed being there, a person who could catch him if he fell. But this was Alfred Front-and-Center Jones we were talking about; he never fell.

"Arthur!" the coach yelled, snapping my mind back to reality right as the kick was going off. I had been doing that quite often recently, staring off into the distance as my mind swirled around Alfred and his countless middle names. I gave him many of them, but his other friends had started to do so as well, which grated just a tad bit upon my nerves. I considered that to be _our _thing.

But yes, you heard that right. Alfred had friends. Other friends. Of course he did. As I had mentioned before, Jones was attractive in many ways. He had this exuberance that drew people to him like, as he would say, "the gravitational attraction of one of the densest masses, like, say, a black hole." He did so many things, was _good_ at so many things, that it was no wonder he gained attention.

That didn't mean I still didn't want him to be just mine.

Not in the romantic sense, of course. We were both quite straight (at this point, at least, though I'll go into more of that later). I just... well, I always felt that I had gotten to him first. We had fought through so much together back in elementary school that once he started getting popular in high school (where intelligence was somewhat respected and admired rather than shunned), I felt a little jilted.

It wasn't his fault, mind you. It wasn't anybody's fault. I just felt like I had some irrational claim to him, simply because I had been there for him when nobody else really was, just like he had been there for me. We were brothers in arms, though perhaps nothing could change that. I guess.

This is not to say that Alfred took to his popularity in any way that was antagonistic to me. Never! He has always been sweet and kind, and he will always be such. He tried to include me in his group of other friends, but I simply wasn't interested. They were all jocks who partied and wore pants far too low for _anyone's_ liking. I had a few friends myself, mostly from my own decently well-off positions as captain of the football—argh, soccer—team and president of the student government. I ran the book club at the school as well, my interests having lain in the literary arts for quite some time now. Alfred and I simply differed in our extracurricular interests (aside from the football), which meant that we hung out with different types of people.

Nevertheless, at the end of the day, we always had each other to fall back on. I was still the only friend he would ever call up in the middle of the night and speak about his latest dream. I was still the only friend to whom he'd ever really admit that "The Ring" scared him to no end. I was still the only friend he'd allow to sleep in the same tent with him on school camping trips.

Now I definitely know some people thought our relationship quite "gay," but I disagreed. It didn't need to be straight or gay, because I was quite sure that our relationship was, on the contrary, a crooked road of twists and turns. We were just us, two guys that were the best of friends in our own way. Our relationship just _was_.

The perfect Arthur/Alfred combination.

"Hey Arthur!" Alfred yelled, causing me to look up once again from my reminiscing. Was I getting old, to be distracted so easily nowadays? I never considered myself to be that much of a sappy heart, but when it came to Alfred, I learned a lot about myself that even I never knew about before. It was quite refreshing, most of the time.

I received the pass that Alfred sent my way and began to run with the ball, doing some fancy footwork to dodge my opponent's assault. I don't like to brag much, but football was sort of my strength. It was the only sport in which I bested Alfred, and I took that fact as far as I could. I showed off whenever the opportunity allowed, and Alfred would always laugh and smile knowingly about it later. He knew I was very proud of my skills, and it warmed my heart to know that he was most likely the only person to ever be _more_ proud of me than I was of myself.

I approached the goal from the side, angling it in the way that Alfred and I had practiced so many times before. Well, I had made the whole team practice it, but Alfred and I always did the move best, because we had devised it ourselves._  
_

With a twist of my leg, I turned around and sent the ball in the opposite direction than people would have likely expected. It caught the defender off guard, passing away from the goal instead of toward it. Alfred received the pass with ease and proceeded to run, zig-zagging in the way that I knew would bring him perfectly to the goal.

I watched him as I ran alongside, knowing that I'd have one more pass to receive to complete this formation. He really was quite stunning when he ran, and I could see why the girls were after him so ardently as they were. I mean, those _legs_. Alfred was not only smart and athletic, but he was quite a looker as well. Seldom were people such great combinations of all three, and Alfred shone in all the categories. He took his talents to heart and he ran with it. He _flew_.

Alfred Flying Jones. That had a nice ring to it.

I was staring so hard and with such focus that I actually missed Alfred's pass, a rare moment for me. The ball came sailing my way, and I was supposed to chest bump it to the ground, turn around and shoot (with my left foot, mind you), but I had been distracted. Alfred was just so riveting and perfect that it was hard not to stare, though I've seldom had this problem until very recently, as I've said.

Thus, when the ball flew my way, I only had a millisecond to blink before it hit me right in the face. A defender also had the brilliant idea of trying to block it himself to steal the ball before it got to me, but in the end, he just managed to slam into my right side, knocking me over. These two forces combined left me woozy and out of breath as I lay upon the ground, completely in shock and still not quite understanding what had just occurred. The world was coming in and out of focus, and there was something not unlike pain coming from my right shoulder. Perhaps it was pain so great that I was blocking it out, but I was sort of in a high flying bliss that would have terrified me had I been in the state of mind to actually register it.

Somewhere, I heard the whistle blow in what sounded like a place worlds away. Someone was calling my name, many people, actually. Two, perhaps? Three? There was the thudding and vibrating of feet running toward me, shaking the ground, and then I felt a set of hands on me, checking, sure enough, my shoulder. There was some low murmuring and chattering, and I think I was groaning, though I couldn't really be sure. All I knew was that everything was quite blurry, and my head was pounding with a vengeance.

I felt a pair of amazingly muscular arms lift me up, bridal style, and I would have had the grace to blush had it actually been anyone else that was carrying me. But it was Alfred. I knew it in an instant, even through my foggy mind. We worked out together, so I knew how strong he could be. I even sat on him as he did push ups sometimes. I could recognize the contours of his muscular arms any day.

No one radiated sheer heat quite like Alfred either, especially mid-game. I had felt that same heat many times in the past as we sat on the couch, side by side, watching movies that we knew would terrify us both to no end for the next few nights, or as I stood on the side, spotting him as he benched an unbelievable amount, grunting but smiling through it all.

But of course, last but not least, Alfred always had a distinct smell. A smell that reminded me of Iowa, though I never know why, considering I had never even been to that state before. I guess Iowa or Idaho always stuck me as "homey" places, little house on the prairie style, and Alfred always reminded me of home.

I was vaguely aware of Alfred rushing me off somewhere, and the word "infirmary" having been tossed around before when I had been lying on the ground. Something about a dislocated shoulder as well, but I couldn't really register much of it. I couldn't register much of anything at all, actually.

All I knew was warmth.

Alfred told me later, after I had woken up, that I had slipped into unconsciousness somewhere along the way. Apparently, I had also received a concussion from when my head had hit the ground. Alfred had laughed and teased (in the most friendly way, I assure you) that even after I had lost consciousness, I had snuggled up to him as he carried me. I had been shivering, and so I had squirmed around until I had landed in a position that was what Alfred called "the most optimal use of surface area contact, dude." But at least the match had ended well without me (Alfred had run off to finish off the game with a solid win, and then came back to do his homework by my side until I had awoken once again; teachers always made exceptions for Alfred "Fastidious" Jones. He did what needed to be done, and he did it well, which allowed him a lot of exceptions when he needed it).

I laughed about it just as he had laughed about it, and we both simply bonded over this absurd experience, as we so often did with all the other mishaps that had occurred in our lives. I in no way felt odd that Alfred had carried me to the infirmary, or that I had snuggled up against him along the way. He didn't mind either, and for good reason. It was simply how we had always been with each other. Touch was simply a strong part of that.

He took me stargazing the night after that match. It was a Saturday, so we had spent the day indoors with him teaching me how to play Assassin's Creed as I waxed poetic on how beautiful the actual _story_ of the game was. I was staying over for the whole weekend, and we had no plans but each other.

When night came, Alfred opened up his window and climbed up onto the roof, as we had done so countless times in the past, ever since that day I came to his cozy little house for the first time and he showed me a squirrel's nest high up in a tree, only visible from his flat rooftop. We hunkered down, dressed warmly against the chilly breeze, a Domino's pizza as a midnight snack by our side (I had tried to cook, but we're never going to go into that. Ever). And as I leaned on him, sleepy from how busy life had been recently, he placed his arm around me. Once again, I felt at home. Far more comfortable here than home really was, actually (for my brothers were terror-inducing beings in and of themselves).

"You know what?" Alfred whispered, after pointing out to me Cassiopeia and telling me her story for the hundredth time in our lives thus far, though I never got bored of it.

"What?"

"I think I'll be Alfred Faceless Jones from now on."

I pulled away slightly, just to be able to look at him and send him an odd look. Well I, for one, liked his face, and I honestly thought he liked it too.

"Faceless? What? Why?"

Alfred smiled and used his hand to pull me back once again. I didn't mind; he was warm as always, and I was shivering (though in hindsight, I'm not sure that was really the wind's doing).

"Because I've been thinking recently... I want to know what I'd be like if the world didn't see me for what I looked like."

I laughed. Here I was, on the roof with my best friend, chatting in the dead of night under the stars, and we were _of course_ talking philosophy. I used to be surprised at how much Alfred really thought about things inside his own head, but I've gotten used to it by now. I was secretly quite proud at how much Alfred confided in me though, for I'm sure that he never told anyone else what was going on in his mind, or as much as he told me

I gave him a friendly punch in the waist. "Doesn't that imply that you think your face matters a great deal to the people around you?"

Alfred blinked before breaking out into a smirk. "What, saying that you wouldn't miss my face if it were gone? Aren't I drop dead stunning?"

My heart jumped to immediate agreement before I could even react. _Yes, you're handsome. Incredibly handsome. The best looking person I know_. _Of _course_ you're great looking, Alfred._

But, I amended,_ that's not what defines you_. There was so much more to Alfred than what initially met the eye, and I lamented that he had to be "Alfred Faceless Jones" for people to sometimes see that.

I smiled and looked back up at the stars. "I wouldn't say _that_," I replied.

Alfred laughed his pealing laughter, which he had to stifle with his other, unoccupied hand. I always felt incredibly smug with the fact that I could make him laugh so easily. Alfred had a special laugh just for me, and I loved every bit of it. No one understood his sense of humor like I did, and I was fiercely protective about that fact. I would defend that title to anyone who dared challenge my crucial place in Alfred's life, because without him, I was nothing. And perhaps _I_ was the arrogant one, because I often selfishly thought that without me, he wouldn't be much either. We made each other better, helped each other along the way. We were each other's crutches. You know, "I get by with a little help from my friends," except that in this case, it was a world of help, and only one friend. The Beatles _almost _had it right.

I glanced at him briefly, playful smile back upon my lips. "I've got to say, though. Arrogant, much?"

Alfred shrugged. "You know how much I like Cassiopeia."

Ah, that queen who thought herself to be the most beautiful in all the realm. Well, I'll have to break to her the news someday that she had finally been beaten—and by a man, no less. I knew of none that could rival Alfred's boyish yet bewitching look, though what made him most attractive was the way he carried that look. A face could only take you so far, but Alfred's shining grin, his kind gestures, his formidable focus when it actually came to serious work—his _everything_—was beautiful, no matter how you looked at it.

God, I was so lucky to be a part of his amazing life.

Many people would kill to be able to sit by his side like this, munching on pizza and watching the stars together, in a silence that was more companionable than any conversation we had ever had. Many people definitely would kill for it; they just didn't know it, because they hadn't had the immense luck to have met him. And you know what? I was glad for that, because that meant that Alfred was, first and foremost, mine, right down to those vague touches we always shared.

From the moment I first took his hand years ago, we had seldom been too far apart from each other. There was always that shoulder rub when he leaned over to show me something cool in his textbook, or that leg touch when we sat by each other in the summer, exchanging stories about legends and fairytales (we couldn't really ever say much about real life, considering our lives had been so intertwined from the start that there wasn't really much left to tell that we didn't already know about each other).

Thus, it never seemed weird to us to sit around like this, his arm around me, my hand resting lightly on his lap. It never felt odd to me when we hugged, or when he sidled up to me on the couch because he was cold and he somehow had the _absurd_ idea that I was warmer than he was. I thought nothing of it, and I'm sure it was the same way for Alfred. We sure weren't gay. We probably weren't straight.

We were just us.

Say what you want, but that suited us fine.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Next chapter and they're already in college. Things happen quickly, as I said. And this is the first fic I've ever read in length that is from a first person perspective, so I know that there is probably a lot of rambling. But that's just generally how I write, first person perspective or not. Still, I apologize for any "long and winding roads" you may find in there. I don't quite have the characterization for Arthur down yet at this point, so it's likely going to change and be jarringly off, but I don't have too much time to think about it.

Please continue, and happy reading!

- Galythia


	4. Fusion

**Fusion**

* * *

His lips were soft against mine, gentle and pliable, unlike many of the times he had consciously made a move to touch me before. But then again, that's probably because in this instance, he wasn't what I would have considered to be "completely conscious."

In other words, Alfred was drunk.

We had just come home from that sort of stereotypical blasting-music, undulating-mob-dancing frat party, where we knew nobody, nobody knew us, and everything was just a mess of bodies draped across the seats and walls of various rooms. We were just faces in a crowd.

Well, I guess it wasn't like we didn't know _anybody_. Alfred was popular still, of course, but Harvard's campus was huge, leaving many classmates whom we had both still yet to meet, despite being juniors (although being a very likely pick to join the Porcellian did get Alfred quite far in social connections).

But I digress. Alfred was drunk, and I mean _really_ drunk, which was why we went home, back to the dorm room we shared up in Straus Hall. I had barely stepped into the room, struggling with my keys as I supported Alfred with my other arm, when the American idiot fell upon me, or assaulted me, more like.

"Hey, sexy," he whispered lasciviously into my ear, sending chills shuddering all the way down my spine. I was caught off guard, and I only had enough space of mind to kick the door shut before Alfred continued his inebriated attack.

"You free tonight?" he asked, snuggling into my neck.

This was a side of Alfred I had never seen before, and I wasn't sure how to deal with it. Alfred wasn't one to just pick up people out of the blue. He was a "relationship sorta guy," as he had explained to me once before, long ago. And yet, here he was, coming on to me. Sure we had a "relationship," but I was quite sure he meant something different when he had said that before.

Even when he had gotten drunk in the past, this had never happened. Alfred was the type of drunk who usually just fell asleep, and the most trouble you had to deal with when he was under the influence was how to get him back to his own bed when he was just so bloody heavy (try moving his body to a car on your own,_ then_ tell me I'm weak). But this, this flirtatious and promiscuous sort of drunk Alfred had never reared his (admittedly but undoubtedly sexy) head before. Needless to say, it alarmed me to no end.

"Alfred. Get off," I muttered, trying to push him off myself, but being lain upon didn't quite lend me any sort of decent leverage. Plus, Alfred, with all of his compact and dense musculature, was, as I had mentioned before, _heavy._

"I wanna stay here, right on top of ya," he murmured, his words slurred in a way that hit me right at the groin, which you can bet surprised me quite a bit. I'd never reacted that way to Alfred before, and now wasn't the best time for that to happen, either. I pushed it aside to think about later on. I had more pressing things to worry about (and I wasn't even talking about what was literally _pressing against my thigh_. He was either armed with a gun, or was _very_ happy to see me).

"_Alfred_," I insisted. "Get _off_."

My idiot of a roommate simply chuckled at my fruitless efforts, which might have annoyed me had his tone not been this _absolutely _alluring and deep, velvety richness that was so unlike his usual bright and clear laughter that I swear my heart almost stopped then and there. I hadn't heard this side of his voice before either, and it warmed my heart just as much as it warmed by crotch. My pants definitely weren't this tight before, I was pretty sure.

Alfred's hand cupping my face brought be back to reality from my thoughts. He caressed my lips with his thumb as he stared down at me, his eyes smoldering in a way I had also never seen before. This was just a night of new (and sinfully sexy) experiences, wasn't it? I didn't even know what my opinion was about all of this, as it was happening to me. All I knew was a world that consisted of those intensely cerulean eyes and that flaming finger on my lips, trailing smouldering heat as it went.

"Alfred..." I murmured warningly, though my voice came out much gruffer than intended, like it was stuck on something in my throat. I wanted him to get off, didn't I? _Didn't I_? God, I wasn't even sure on _that_ point. Alfred's eyes just had a way of enchanting you and taking up all of your attention, though I never noticed until now.

At this point, what was I to do? What could I do? This was a situation I hadn't been prepared for. What was the right way to handl—well, Alfred decided it for me when he abruptly leaned down and kissed me. Right then and there. No hesitation about it.

His lips moved slowly and gently, kneading against mine in what I swear was the best kiss I had ever received up until that point (I say that only because Alfred's kisses would get better and better each time). He just had a way with lips like he had a way with physics. Or perhaps it was chemistry, since I could definitely feel _something_ cackling between us right then.

Don't get me wrong, I've had girlfriends. I'd built up quite a nice reputation myself, having graduated from high school as valedictorian (Alfred was in the top ten, but he really was terrible at the English language arts, which was ultimately his downfall). I had that to my name, plus I was decent looking, and I was good enough at football to play my regular midfield position at Harvard. That definitely got me points with the ladies.

But this—_this_—was different. Women's kisses could not even begin to compare with the magic that was happening between my lips and his. I swear there must have been sparks flying, canons booming, and some sort of fanfare parading down the street, based on the buzz that I was getting and the sound that was rushing to my ears.

Alfred pulled away slightly, panting from the heat of it all, and I realized I was quite short for breath as well. Forget girlfriends. I was kissing _Alfred._

And it was **_hot._**

My mind was in a blissful haze, and part of me—a very strong part of me that made valid arguments by means of my crotch—wanted to keep going. Maybe I was in some sort of numb shock, but I wasn't as alarmed about the kissing as I thought I should have been, especially now that it had actually happened. I mean, I enjoyed it, and he seemed to be enjoying it, so what would be the harm in continuing?

Of course, then I remembered. "Relationship sort of guy." Right.

Alfred would have killed me if we continued, and who knows, I'd have probably regretted it in the morning myself. No matter what sexual tension lay between us (for I was just starting to realize right then how much tention actually existed, as I felt his knee grind into my already aching crotch), my job, first and foremost, was to be his friend. And that meant getting him into bed—without a free Arthur Kirkland thrown into the deal.

"Alfred," I muttered against his lips as he returned for a second round. For all that I was trying to be a noble friend, I was terrible at keeping up my end of the bargain. I hadn't had a girl since high school, though I definitely had my eye on someone in my linguistics class that happened every Tuesday and Thursday. Still, I hadn't made moves, and that meant that the both of us, neither virgins anymore, had not had any form of sexual release for quite a while, aside from the occasional fapping session in a dark, far off corner. Obviously, compared to _that_, this was far more enjoyable.

By God, I was a terrible friend.

"Alfred," I tried again, my voice failing me.

"Oh, you sound _so_ cute when you're drunk," he murmured, the words vibrating against my lips.

"I'm not the drunk one," I muttered, placing my hands on his hardened biceps. Were they ever that sexy before? Dear Lord, maybe I was just a _tad_ bit tipsy for thinking that. Here I was, lying on the floor and making out with my best friend, putting up barely any fight. Something was clearly wrong.

I gasped as his lips found my throat and his fingers found the buttons to my shirt. Alfred was never one to be patient when there was action to be had.

"Stop it," I grumbled, my words muffled as I was somewhat speaking into his hair. "Stop, Alfred."

This was a mistake. I was enjoying it, and honestly, I didn't even mind the fact that I was doing with Alfred things that only couples usually did. What I did mind, however, was the fact that we _weren't_ a couple, and yet we were still doing this. That felt so illicit and sinful, and I wanted everything between Alfred and me to be only perfection—and that didn't involve making out with Alfred when he wasn't sober enough to fully weigh and understand what he was doing.

Plus, for all I know, his inebriation could have made him easily mistake me for a random girl off the street, his libido taking over his rationality. And as confident and strong as I considered myself to be, it would still hurt quite a bit if we did anything and later I found out Alfred thought I had been a girl this whole time.

"Alfred," I said, stronger this time. But my words failed me once again as Alfred began to suck on my neck in a way I hadn't even known could produce such pleasurable feelings until now.

"Fuck, I love it when you say my name," he murmured, licking down my collarbone. "Say it again, Arthur."

Well shit. Maybe Alfred wasn't mistaking me for a girl after all.

If he still could register me as Arthur, that was at least something. But if he could still register me as _Arthur_, then what the bloody hell was going on in that mind of his as he was giving me this hickey?

"Alfred," I growled darkly. He groaned in response to hearing his name and began to kiss down the opening of my shirt.

I was breathing raggedly, and goddamn was I so turned on by this wild display of wanton desire. Alfred was a sexy beast, and this rough show of power definitely got my juices flowing—right down to my groin. I could tell that Alfred was quite aroused too, and if his gruff moans didn't do the job, his solid hardness pressing right against mine did all the necessary speaking for him.

Nevertheless, I struggled, even as one of his hands reached down and began to fumble with my pants. Somewhere in there, my shirt had somehow become completely unbuttoned, and he began trailing tantalizing kisses all the way down. As much as I enjoyed it, and as much as I surprisingly wouldn't have minded if it had continued (though perhaps that was just the beer pong talking), I needed to stop Alfred before he did something he would regret the next day—and perhaps I would have regretted it too.

Who knew for sure?

It was only in reminding myself over and over that, before anything else, Alfred was my _friend_, that I finally found the strength to count to three and push him off. Roughly.

He rolled around and flopped down, landing with a thud and a groan. He brought a hand up to to cover his eyes, probably just realizing that our low level institutional lighting could still be quite blinding when combined with a few shots of tequila and a cocktail of who knows what people could find. Shoe polish and rum, maybe? I definitely drank something that tasted like that, somewhere in the fray. Maybe someone had spit in it too. How distasteful, in all senses of the word.

I was still breathing roughly—we both were—as we lay there upon the ground, overheating despite the freezing weather. I don't know what Alfred was really doing, but I heard him getting up. That was enough to make me spring into action as well, despite my limbs feeling like lead and my head pounding. I was still more sober between the two of us, and that meant that it was still my duty to ensure that we didn't do anything stupid. That _he_ didn't do anything stupid.

Of course, I want to get it straight (or perhaps crooked) that I never thought I would put having sex with each other on the list of "stupid things" (more so because I didn't think that it was something that should have been labeled "stupid," rather than because it was in the realm of possibilities at all. As I said, we had a special way of working that wasn't defined by any boundaries, and I liked us that way).

Hoisting myself up, I balanced against the bed railing for a bit before completely gaining my balance. My blood had rushed all over the place, and it was just now finding its rhythm once again, though my crotch still didn't want to let go of its portion just yet. Maybe I'd go to take care of that after I got Alfred situated.

My roommate had other plans, however, for the moment I managed to drag him by the armpits onto the bed, all the while with him moaning about "taking me back to his place" (a clear sign of hallucination by inebriation, if nothing else was), Alfred reached up and pulled be down with him.

I stumbled for a bit and ended up landing right upon his chest, though he clearly didn't seem to mind, judging from the way he hummed in approval. I guess I didn't quite mind either, since he was just so warm, and Februaries in Cambridge weren't known for their agreeable weather.

"A-Alfred," I murmured, though I was silenced by the feeling of his lips against my hair, his voice thrumming along my skin as he shushed me ever so gently.

"Arthur," he breathed, almost sounding sober, which brought a blush to my face and grounded me back to reality once again. "Just let me... hold you..."

I had no idea what he was on, but whatever it was, he had better never take it again. It wasn't right—not the homosexuality of it, I mean, but this toying with my emotions. I liked him. Of course I liked him. I loved him, even, though not like _that_. Not in the way that I felt toward women. But perhaps that was only because what I felt toward women could never compare to how I felt about him...

Now _there_ was a new way to think about things.

"Alfred," I muttered once again, trying to shift away to my own bed, but his arm wouldn't move. My shirt was still wide open, meaning that there was only one thin layer of clothing between mine and his, our jackets having been discarded long ago. Alfred managed to put space heaters to shame, which meant that right then, I was actually starting to fall asleep due to how cozy the situation was.

He was just oh so warm, and there was just so much to think about in my mind. I was comfortable, just laying there, my head resting against the crook of his neck. He didn't seem to mind either, considering his fingers were swirling absentmindedly around in my hair in a highly satisfied sort of way. Like he belonged there. Like I belonged there.

And you know what? I couldn't quite find a reason to disagree with that thought.

"All right," I acceded, "but only if you go to bed." I definitely chuckled when all I received was a light snore in reply. Apparently, that roughhousing had been just a quick phase, some excitement the moment he got me back in private. I was immensely glad that he had calmed down, but still. Really.

_Really_.

Alfred had made out with me. He had made out. With _me_. And I liked it.

What a mind-boggling fact. A lot to think about, though I wasn't sure if I could actually do much deep analysis, considering how tired I was myself.

I yawned, and since I didn't seem to be going anywhere soon, I figured I might as well have made myself at home there. That was easy, since as I had said before, being near Alfred was always as close to the idea of "home" as I could ever get. He held a very important piece of my soul, and I loved him with every fiber of my being. I hadn't been afraid to admit to myself (and to him, if he ever asked, though he never did) that I loved him, but I hadn't thought it to be "gay" just because all friends loved each other. What I felt for Alfred was different from what I felt for girls. What I felt for Alfred was different from what I felt for anybody else, actually. And before this night, I was 100% sure that that exact love for him was just friendship.

But now, as my mind slowly drifted off to one of the most comfortable nights I would ever have at uni, I wasn't quite so sure.

I mean, Alfred _was_ pretty hot, after all, in every sense of the word. And I had always had a thing for sexy bespectacled engineering majors with a minor in astrophysics who could eloquently compare their own qualities to that of the universe at large. I could never articulate it half so well as I was sure Alfred could, so I'm only going to give it a small try now:

In my opinion, Alfred was just like the sun. That is to say that he lit up the lives of those around him, he held everything together and kept things moving, and he was prone to flares and flashes of absolute brilliance (of mind and of personality).

Though most of all, Alfred Fission Jones was already the center of my solar system.

* * *

I was jolted awake by the sound of the doorknob turning, and the first thing I thought of was a thief, because no student had the key to this room but me and Alfred, and surely, Alfred was still asleep. I don't think I'd ever woken up after him in the mornings, ever since I found that out at our first sleepover together over a decade ago.

Cripes, has it really been that long?

I had no weaponry to speak of, but when I rolled over to get up, what my mind immediately jumped to was the fact that Alfred wasn't there. The bed was cool, as if he hadn't lain there for a while now. Looking around the room, I didn't spy him anywhere, for that matter, and worry for Alfred wandering campus with a hangover overtook any fear I had of breaking and entering. I didn't even have anything to steal but textbooks and a crappy laptop full of work (and I guess the occasional porn file, but hey, I _was_ male. I still am, in fact).

"Alfre—" I began, right before the person in question stepped into the room, shirtless and just back from a shower. His body was still glistening with water, the droplets forming in alluring beads as they rolled down tantalizingly slowly into... well, realms unchartered, but I had a vague feeling that that statement should have been followed by a "yet," considering last night.

My roommate froze the moment he saw that I was awake, and judging by the blush that overcame his bitable cheeks, he clearly remembered what had occurred last night. Well, so did I, and thank Merlin that I had no hangover to speak of so that I could think about it clearly this morning. I guess I hadn't drunk all that much... which meant that last night was even more conscious than I had previously thought.

Good...?

"Arthur..." Alfred murmured, as if surprised that I was still in his bed. "I... uhh..."

Bloody hell, even his hesitation seemed adorable now. Last night definitely changed the way I viewed Alfred, and somehow, in the span of one evening, he became my best platonically-loved friend to an object of romantic interest. Or maybe they were one and the same? All the happy couples I had ever encountered seemed like they were best friends first, lovers second, and that love part was only an extension of the strong connection they already shared. If that was the case, then couldn't it have been just the same way with Alfred...?

"Good morning," I murmured nonchalantly, yawning and stretching afterward. I wanted to see what he'd say first, or at least how much he had remembered.

"'Morning," he replied, biting his lip. Alfred took a small step in before shaking his head and purposefully walking over to sit at the edge of his bed, his toned thigh tantalizingly close to my hand. I was seeing Alfred in a whole new light this morning, wasn't I? I wondered vaguely if I had changed in his eyes too.

"How's your head?" I asked, as something to get the conversation going, at least. I shifted over to give him some more room on the mattress.

"Fine." I guess this was a one-word reply sort of morning for him. I wasn't feeling much different, and all I would have loved to do was continue on with my day and write that dreaded paper for modern civilization, but how could I ignore this suddenly _very_ desirable man in front of me, all toned, _dripping_, and ready to go? It would be a day of zero productivity if I didn't do something about it now.

"So Alfr—"

"Arthur," he spoke, quite seriously and strongly, clear diction and all. He turned to look at me, his eyes blazing with intensity in a look that I had come to understand meant honesty—straight from the heart.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

Well _that_ was an unnecessary question. I didn't see where this was going, but I followed along. Alfred had an odd way of doing things, but they usually turned out for the best.

"Of course." I let some of my confusion show through so that he'd know he'd have to explain himself well to clear up my bemusement.

Alfred nodded and stared down at his hands for a brief moment, scrunching his face up in that look I had mentioned a while ago, a look of intense concentration or puzzlement. It had been endearing before, but now it was positively adorable. I thought I definitely could have gotten used to seeing Alfred this way. He was a walking porn mag, and who wouldn't want that sort of stud as their roommate?

Alfred looked up once again, his mind decidedly set on something, I could tell.

"Well, if you trust me, then close your eyes."

I really could not tell where he was taking this, but I had committed myself to trusting Alfred's every move ever since way long ago, no matter how odd or outlandish. Thus, I closed my eyes and shivered, getting an ominous feeling that something big was about to happen.

And then I felt it. Alfred's lips right against my own.

They were gentler then they had been last night, more earnest and shy, like a schoolboy kissing a girl for the very first time discreetly in the back of the school. It was sweet, and he tasted like mint, too. Never in my life had I liked Colgate more than I did then.

Alfred didn't move, simply holding his lips there as the rest of his body sat so close, yet so far away. My body ached to reach out, grab hold of him, take him in my arms and hug him close until there was no part of my body that had gone without a taste of Alfred's touch. I burned with the desire to entangle my fingers in is hair, to hold his head against mine as I deepened this kiss until we were both drowning in bliss—

But I didn't.

I didn't because I feared that even the slightest movement, the slightest breath, would break this serene and magical moment. And just as quickly as it had come—_too quickly, in my opinion—it was gone. Alfred pulled back, and I was left feeling colder than I had felt in any moment that whole winter thus far._

I sat there with my eyes closed for a while, listening to the sound of my own breathing, intermingled with that of Alfred's. Dear Lord, even our exhalations were intertwining in the air, a clear sign that no part of us didn't want for the other. Or at least I thought that. I still wasn't sure where Alfred stood on this situation.

"Arthur," he murmured, sweetly, softly. I opened my eyes just a crack and assessed him through my eyelashes, a part of me still floating off in blissful peace.

"Mm?"

Alfred was blushing bright red, looking down at his hands as he gripped the towel dangling around his neck. His knuckles shone white from the effort.

"I... uhh... Fuck." He groaned and turned away, giving me a nice view of his shorts, which were standing at attention already. Well, at least I wasn't alone in that department.

"What, Alfred?" I leaned in involuntarily, taking in a whiff of his wonderful smell. It wasn't his body wash, or his shampoo, or his shaving cream, but it was just a combination of everything together, mixed with something that was distinctively simply Alfred. Was it just me, or was Alfred especially magnetic this morning?

"Ugh," he sighed, taking a deep breath. "I guess... I don't now. How was that?"

"What, you mean the kiss?" I asked, my light and even tone a jarring clash against my rapidly beating heart.

"_Wow_, you can speak about it calmly," he whistled, raising his eyebrows in admiration.

I laughed and shook my head. I honestly didn't know why I was so calm about it. Any other guy would have probably been flipping out that his best friend for over a decade had just made out with him last night, and would have probably been having existential crises about sexuality because he ended up _liking_ it, but... well, I guess I was different. I've always been different. And so has Alfred. That's what we liked about each other—_loved_ about each other, even, though I wouldn't go so far as to say the feelings I held for him were reciprocated just yet.

"I guess I can." I shrugged, speaking with a smile, though he couldn't see because his eyes were still averted. Well, hey, I felt a little bold this morning, so I thought I'd return the favor of surprising him just as he had surprised me the night before (and once again just now).

"Oi, Alfred," I murmured, giving him only the slightest warning before I took his chin in my fingers and thought, what the heck? If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right.

"Here's your answer."_  
_

Then I kissed him. I didn't kiss him softly, either. I kissed him hard, passionately, tongue and all, which made Alfred squeal—yes, _squeal_—in surprise. He fumbled around for a bit, unsure what to do. My eyes were closed, so I couldn't see, but I definitely could hear it. To be honest, though, my mind wasn't focused on that; it was too busy with the task of memorizing the soft contours of Alfred's delectably full lips.

After getting over his initial surprise, my roommate began reciprocating, just as strongly and just as ardently. His tongue danced with mine, his lips smashed right against my own, moving in a way that I swear could give me a seizure from just the mere pleasure of it. I'd heard stories—legends, more like—that Alfred was an amazing kisser, but I knew now that was the understatement of the millenium. He was _indescribable_.

I don't know whether or not it was minutes or hours before I broke it off, but when I finally did, we were both left out of breath. Somewhere in the mess, my fingers had indeed ended up entangled in his hair, and his hands had come up to hold the back of my neck and the side of my waist. I could already see it in his eyes that he was just starting to think _'Oh shit, what have I done?'_ So before any of that could take root in that silly little mind of his, I leaned over and gave him a sincere and light kiss on the forehead.

"I guess you could say I liked it," I murmured into his hair. "I guess you could say I liked it _a lot_."

It was a few moments before Alfred finally relaxed and let me hug him like I wanted to. He was still breathing quite erratically, but he hadn't left my arms yet, which was a start.

"And last night?"

I chuckled. "What do you remember of it?"

Alfred buried his nose into my shoulder and brought his hands up to hold me as well. I couldn't tell you just how happy I was at that moment that we had such open-minded upbringings. As I mentioned before, I wanted everything between Alfred and myself to be perfect, and that included having no angst or drama between us. But we were, first and foremost, honest people, so I guess that was never really a problem.

"I... Well, I came on to you, didn't I?" His voice was soft. Meek, even. I decided then and there that I didn't like my usually wildly confident and ferociously passionate best friend acting like this, because it simply threw me off to no end. It was time to remedy that, and jokes often did the job.

I laughed. "Well, you didn't quite 'cum' onto me, did you? Though I have to say you got quite close there."

"Arthur!" he exclaimed in shock, though I could tell that he was smiling. Alfred grumbled and gave me a mock punch in the shoulder. "Now isn't really the time for jokes, you know."

I gave him a squeeze. "And why is that? As far as I can tell, nothing has changed." And that was the truth. I still felt the same way toward Alfred as I had before. He was just all of a sudden even _more _attractive, and lord knows I didn't mind that in the slightest.

"Nothing? _Nothing_? But I—"

"You kissed me."

Should I have been scared that these words came to me with such ease? Should I have been having a homosexual crisis on my hands? Discovering that I've really been gay all these years, even though I thought I was straight? That didn't quite feel like the right term in this situation. It was more like discovering I was really Alfredsexual all these years, rather than anything else. Suddenly, that girl in my linguistics class didn't seem all that cool anymore. Same with the rest of the datable population.

"What of it, Alfred?"

"Well, you're a guy, and I'm a guy... So shouldn't you be yelling at me or something?"_  
_

Ladies and gentlemen, might I present to you the blockhead that was my best friend. I told you he was the biggest idiot I ever knew, didn't I? If this didn't prove it to you, I don't know what I'd ever say could.

"Why would I yell at you? You liked kissing me, or was I reading that sexual libido wrong?"

I could feel Alfred's heart speed up. I could almost even hear it, and it was fast, but not as fast as my own.

"Yes— I mean, no— I mean, of _course_ I liked it, but you—"

"Well, I liked it too." I didn't see much of what was the problem here. Was Alfred having a sexuality crisis instead? I hadn't thought about that until now, simply because I, on the other hand, was perfectly okay with this. But cripes, that would have been bad if he were struggling, especially for that "no drama between us" idea. Still, if that was the case, I had to help him.

"It's okay if you're feeling confused, Alfred. It's not like—"

"Nononono, Artie. It's not like that." Alfred began to pull away and I tried to keep him close, but he was persistent. And when he managed to back off, I suddenly felt so cold again. If I could stay in his arms forever, I would.

Wow, I sounded like some sappy soap opera. Was _this_ the clear sign of love?

Alfred sat in front of me, his hands back to gripping the towel, his eyes downcast as he was clearly thinking about something troubling again. It seemed to be quite a struggle, based on the way he was staring. I was pretty sure the blanket would catch on fire if he kept it up any longer.

"Alfred...?" I prompted, though I knew that he'd talk to me eventually. We always talked about things that bothered us, since oftentimes, no one would really listen or understand like we could about each other.

But this silence was an unexpectedly long one. It was large and heavy, clumsy as it bumbled along to fill the space between us. I didn't like it one bit. _Nothing_ was good enough to get in the way between me and Alfred.

So I tried again. "Alfr—"

"I love you."

Well... _hell_.

I would have thought he was joking, but I knew him well enough by now. He was looking right at me, his eyes intense with earnest focus, and his tone sincere and honest. I could hear that it had been hard for him to admit that, but by Jove was I still blown away by what he had actually said.

"You..." I began, fishing around for words. "You... love..."

"Yeah," he admitted softly, nodding ever so slightly, shifting his eyes away again. He made to move from the bed, but there was no way in hell I was letting him go after a development like that. I reached out quickly and grabbed his arm, surprising him and making him look back up once again.

"You love me," I repeated, still marveling at those words. "Is this... something recent?"

Alfred blushed ever so slightly. "Uhh... well... not really. I've known ever since graduation, when you gave me flowers and I was disappointed that none of them were roses." He laughed it off, but it was clear that he was telling the complete and honest truth.

Graduation, huh? Three years, then. Three years he knew he loved me. Three years he'd been my roommate, spending time together, sleeping right near each other, staying up late together and cramming for all that our lives were worth. _Three whole years._

Well, I guess it made sense now. Alfred hadn't had a girlfriend ever since he had broken up with Thanh, that overachieving Vietnamese sweetheart of his in high school. They had decided that it was best to end their thing before uni, since she was going off to Stanford while he was staying right in Cambridge. It wasn't that they had been dating as a fling, but they were both smart enough to know that they'd likely drift apart in such a long distance relationship. They remained good friends, though, and Alfred hadn't been in any bad way whatsoever when he started his matriculation at Harvard the following fall.

But as I was saying, Alfred had never had a girlfriend since then, despite his instant popularity in college, even as a freshman. Every Valentine's day so far (two, though wow, I guess _today_ made it a third), he had been swamped by confessions and chocolates. I was there to keep him humble, of course, reminding him that these girls were probably insane for seeing anything good in such an idiot like him, but deep down, I knew exactly where they were coming from.

I agreed with a lot of what they wrote in those letters (which Alfred read to me so that I, the literature major, could help him with formulating a reply). Those girls (and some guys) had hit it right on the mark. Alfred was simply perfect, in each and every way, and I was quite proud that the students of Harvard knew just how amazing Alfred was. He deserved nothing less.

Still, though. _Three years, _and still he had said nothing about it until now_. __Three._

Sheesh, what an idiot.

"Let me get this straight. You've loved me ever since graduation. For three years. Unfailingly. Until now?" These words felt so foreign yet so perfect on my lips. It was like they had been fated to be there right from the very beginning, but I just hadn't discovered it until now.

"Haha, yeah..." Alfred reached up and ran a hand sheepishly through his hair. "Look, Arthur. I know it's awkward to hear this and all, so don't feel like you have to—"

"Too late," I replied. Be still, my heart.

Really, though, it would have been nice if my ecstatically beating heart could have just calmed down for a moment so that I could think over the sound of blood pounding in my ears. I could feel Alfred's eyes watching me carefully, waiting for an explanation.

"I think... I think I love you too," I spoke slowly, though as I said it, I realized it was true. I did love Alfred. But then again, I had always loved him, just platonically. But wasn't romantic love simply platonic love multiplied to an absurd amount by which point the lines were so gray that they didn't even matter anymore?

"Yeah." I nodded, sure of myself now. I looked up and him and grinned. "I definitely love you." This was so much easier than I thought it would be. There _had_ to be something that we were missing.

Alfred blushed, a vibrant crimson that graced his cheeks so wonderfully. "Th-that's great and all, but... You know, I don't mean I love you a-as a friend... It's more like—"

"Shhhh." I smiled and held a finger up to his lips. "I understand."

"And...?" Alfred looked so hesitantly hopeful that I just wanted to jump him right then and there. Hesitation was definitely not a staple trait in Alfred's list of characteristics, and though I found it endearing (because let's face it, any part of Alfred was magnificent), I wanted the confident stud with the strut back here with me.

"And the same answer still stands," I replied.

He breathed a sigh of relief, his shoulders visibly sagging as he released the stress that had been weighing down his mind. He wrung the towel around for a bit in his hands, looking for things to say.

"So... uhh... what now?" he asked, and I could see on his face that he still didn't quite believe me yet. Was it really that hard to see that of course I would love him? Hadn't we already been through enough together that this was just the final icing on the cake? Was it something that even needed explaining?

I laughed and leaned over to ruffle his hair. It was Saturday, and though we both had mountains of homework due on Monday, I was willing to let a few things slide just this once, and I had a feeling he wouldn't have minded either. There was always Sunday night to bond over a joint all-nighter, after all.

"I think now we... I don't know. What do couples do nowadays? It's been a while since I've dated anyone. Although I guess the same stands for you too, lover boy."

Alfred looked up. "Wait. Couple? But we only just— well, it's so— I mean—" Alfred fell silent, English failing him this morning as it usually did almost all the time anyway. There was a reason _I_ was the lit major between the two of us.

"Is there a problem?"

This felt right to me, and I wanted—needed—everything to be right, even if "right" turned out to be a relationship which I was quite sure neither of us had ever imagined we would have with each other. But hey, we lived in Cambridge, one of the most homosexually accepting places in the country. I had thought I was straight. But hey, I was open minded. He was open minded. We loved each other. I didn't see how this _wouldn't_ work—although I guess he _was_ in the running for Porcellian membership and all, among many other things. Cambridge might have been a liberal place, but that didn't mean that all of its denizens were that open-minded.

"I mean," I amended, "I won't go screaming it out to the world if you have a rep to uphold, but I just thought—"

"Nonononono, it's not that Artie," Alfred rushed to reassure me. "It's just... I was scared, you know? I was scared that it would ruin our relationship if you ever knew, and now... well, now things are happening so quickly." His words started coming out in a torrent of syllables pressed together to an uncomfortable tightness and indiscernable speed.

"I didn't think I'd do that if I ever got drunk, but then of course I was drunk last night, and part of me had been conscious of what I was doing, but then another part of me basically said that perhaps this was the only time I could ever get what I really wanted, and I knew I was taking advantage of you, but I was way beyond caring at that point, because I just loved you so much. And I wanted you, Artie. I _wanted _you. It was like I needed you to be right there, all the time. Every part of me touching you, every part of my skin flush right against yours, and I just didn't know what to do. And then since I _did_ make moves on you, I felt like I owed you an explanation this morning, but I hadn't expected you to react the way you did. I was terrified, but now I'm just so happy I don't know what to do, and I still can't quite believe it and—"

There was only one way to silence him.

With a sure hand, I yanked him toward me by the towel and pressed my lips against his once again.

"You're giving me a headache," I murmured against his mouth as I pulled him back down to the bed. I wanted to lounge around all morning, discovering this new side of our relationship that perhaps was just the old in disguise—or more like with its disguise removed.

Plus, my crotch was _aching_.

"Sorry," he whispered sheepishly, though his lips were quite busy working against mine to articulate well beyond that.

"Don't worry about it; don't worry about anything." He was lying on top of me now, arms on either side of my head as we kissed passionately, in an effort to make up for lost time. That was eleven years of lost time, mind you, so we had a lot of work ahead of us.

"Ar... Arthur," he murmured in between kisses, already short for breath. I would have thrown the blanket back over us, but I was already overheating, and there wasn't even any clothing between us. My shirt was lying open, and Alfred was half naked.

Not naked enough.

"Hm?" I asked, debating in my mind the desire to explore this slowly and the desire to rip all of his clothes right off of him then and there.

"I... just..." He pulled back to get some air, and so that he could talk to me in coherent sentences. Before I knew what he was doing, he pushed me over and lay down beside me, spooning me in a way that made every part of me completely warm. Sure, it wasn't making out, but I loved this just as much. I loved everything and anything about Alfred, actually.

Yeah, I was definitely Alfredsexual.

"I just wanted to hold you for a bit," Alfred finished. I could tell that he was blushing, though he was definitely smiling too. Not a bad combination for a Saturday morning.

In response, I just snuggled into him, humming with satisfaction. No hangover, homework still days away, no plans for the weekend save for hanging out with my best friend—oh wait. My _boyfriend_.

Yep. There wasn't much that could top this.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Since I've yet to actually start freshman year there yet, I don't know much about Harvard except for what I could learn from applying and the info they sent after acceptance. Thus, please pardon the inaccuracies.

I also am obviously not a member of that vaguely mysterious all male finals club (the Porcellian, I mean), so I can't be accurate with that either. If anyone _is_, though, and I've written something wrong, please point out my errors so that I may fix it.

Thanks. On to the next chapter!

- Galythia


	5. Faithfully

**Faithfully**

* * *

Needless to say, uni was a blast. I mean, Harvard is an amazing institution in and of itself, but being there with my boyfriend definitely made the experience fantastic to the point of unbelievable (plus, we managed to dorm together all four years of our stay there, the first year just by chance, and that made it even better. And I'll definitely admit that our last year had been the _steamiest _of them all).

You wouldn't believe how Alfred finally told anybody and everybody that we were dating, though. At dinner one night, about a week after Valentine's Day, after we talked it over and decided that we definitely could let people know, he literally ran into the middle of Quincy Dining Hall, flung his arms wide opened and yelled out to anyone who would listen that he was "fuckin' in love with Arthur Kirkland, guys. _Arthur Kirkland!_"

I definitely disappeared from that dining hall for at least a month after the incident, though no one ever really let me live it down, even classmates at reunions years later. What can I say? When Alfred did something, it was always "go big or go home" (although he had told me many times that "home" was always where I was, so I guess I didn't mind if he went small every so often).

We lost some friends who didn't support the relationship when it was first revealed, but we gained a great many who did. Elizaveta and I still keep in touch now, even if we don't see each other much anymore. Kiku went traveling for a while to learn about plastic modeling around the world, but through Francis, of all people, we eventually reestablished contact once again.

Alfred didn't end up getting into the Porcellian finals club, and we'll never be sure of the reason why that was the case, but he scoffed at it anyway. He had possessed enough trophies, medals and titles to last him a lifetime already at that point, and we hadn't even graduated yet. Little did he know then that he'd go on to do great things and gain even more acclaim—but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, we won some, we lost some, but overall, we had an absolutely magnificent time under the crimson flag. Pardon me if I pass over a great many of the details, though, because this is a great part of the memories that I'd like to keep personal for good. In addition, reminiscing about the good old college days (or practically any part of my life, actually) still hurts to an excruciating amount. I'm not above admitting that I am in pain, as I'm not above saying many things, which I've hoped you learned by now. Those fourth grade bullies didn't know what they were talking about.

In any case, I'm making an effort to tell my story, but please understand that there are just some parts which are so happy yet too painful to relive. Like a sort of bittersweet nostalgia, if you will.

So, fast forward six years from where we left off before. Five years out of college and we were living together in a beautifully modern townhouse in Virginia. Alfred had a very comfortable, high salary job working for NASA as one of their leading engineers, and his post put him right in D.C. My job, on the other hand, allowed me quite a bit of freedom (I decided to take the entrepreneur route and start my own location-less library system, in more of a Zipcar sense than a Netflix sense, but the details would bore you). The important part was that it was moveable, so I simply followed Alfred wherever he needed to go.

I didn't mind, though, since our area in Reston, VA was a beautiful neighborhood full of sleek houses and cozy living spaces. The neighbors were kind, the trees abundant, the air relatively fresh. There wasn't much else you could ask for in such a life, and I was absolutely happy living as I was. (Having the perfect man to snuggle up to each night might also have added something to the perfection of life as it was.)

We had a nice little routine going, where he would leave for work pretty early in the morning, after I woke him up and we had breakfast together (always cereal or something that didn't require heat, because lord knows I'd set even a slice of bread in the toaster on fire, and Alfred liked to sleep in as much as he could so he couldn't cook in the mornings (something about optimal REM sleep, though I admit I used the biology lectures back in uni as much needed sleeping time instead)).

I generally spent days at the house, working from our cozy home office. It was seldom lonely, though, since he would text me at his breaks and occasionally even call me during lunchtime.

Yeah, I knew I was lucky. I was the luckiest bastard out there, because somehow I had managed to find a lover of whom I would never tire, and who seemed to never tire of me. Even after six years of dating (and lord knows how long of friendship), I think our connection only got stronger and harder to break. A rarity in love, as far as I could tell, though I'm not speaking from an experience of all that great a sample size.

Alfred was my first love, and he would forever be my only love.

Dinner was always an interesting affair in our household (God, I'll never get tired of saying that phrase), since it was often a bit unpredictable when Alfred would come home. He loved his job, and seeing as he got paid some generous overtime if he ever stayed behind, Alfred often did so (plus, it gave us nice vacation time when we needed it). I didn't care because no matter what he did, we always had dinner together. If he came home, then we'd get take-away (or he'd cook if he felt up to the task even after a long day of work); if he didn't come home, then he'd let me know by five so that I'd have enough time to pick up some food and go meet him at work.

Alfred worked alone in his own designated office, usually on equations, diagrams and texts that I couldn't even begin to decipher for the life of me. He often said he felt a bit lonely there, but the benefit of such an enclosed space was that I could visit him in the evenings and no one really seemed to care. Thus, in our collective opinion, the benefits clearly outweighed the deficits in this instance.

On this specific day (which might be one of the happiest days of my entire life, and I can say that because by now, I've lived most of it already), right on cue at around 4:30, my phone buzzed with a text, which stated that Alfred had started upon a new an exciting project, and thus couldn't come home for a few hours at the least. 'But I was welcome to come keep him company, if I wanted to.'

_If I wanted to._

I don't even know why he thought it necessary to add that last part every time. Had I ever _not_ come? That idiot, honestly.

I dropped by the usual place for dinner, this simple, single-store regional shop called Continental Pizza that sold slices which were practically oozing with magnificence. Their pies were one of a kind, completely unique in taste and in recipe. I didn't even like pizza all that much, on the whole (though living with Alfred made the upkeep of such an opinion quite difficult). Nevertheless, I could eat slices from Continental into eternity. They were absolutely _divine._

But enough about the pizza. You can visit there yourself if you'd like to, some day. I'm sure they're still around, and they might even still have that picture up of Al and me, trying to down the audacious ten pies we decided to order once in just one sitting. I can barely even remember how it happened, but we ended up accomplishing the task, and they were so thoroughly impressed with us that they gave us a whole pie for free (though I couldn't even look at it without feeling sick by that point).

Anyway, I'm sure they're still there, though I haven't been back to Reston since... well, since the year of this chapter, actually. There were just too many memories, some of which I'd rather not revisit, even though they haunt my dreams every day.

Alas, some things are unavoidable, which is why I guess I'm writing about it.

But you'll get more on that later. Back to me and this delicious smelling all-ingredients pizza that I was lugging to Alfred, taking all the willpower I had not to just devour it right then and there in the car. The aroma was wafting around me in such a luscious invitation, and I'm telling you, it was definitely a sign of true love that I didn't just pull over and finish it off myself.

I think Alfred knew, too, how much effort it took, since every time I stepped into his office, pizza in hand, just as I did then, he'd put down whatever it was that he was working on and come wrap me in one of his gentle yet firm hugs of completely enveloping warmth. He'd smile, give me a nice, deep kiss, and before I'd say anything, he'd always ask me about my day. Alfred would seldom tell me about his before he'd heard about mine first.

Now tell me, what was there _not _to like when it came to Alfred F. Jones?

"What's the project?" I asked, after having told him about my day, which never really varied all that much, aside from the occasional special Skype meeting with governments and library offices around the world.

"Oh, you wouldn't even _believe _it, babe," he spoke, struggling to swallow before the rest of the story tumbled out of his mouth. I blushed wildly, as I always did when he used any term of endearment with me. I think he knew, too, which is why those words cropped up as often as they did in his everyday vocabulary.

"Try me." I sidled over close to him, so that my left side was completely flush against his as we sat upon the ground in his office. Alfred was never the neatest when it came to workspace arrangement, and his papers were draped anywhere and everywhere (plus, chairs were overrated anyway).

Alfred launched into this long explanation about telescopes, space exploration and robotics, all of which flew right over my head. But I nodded and tried to understand. In return, he tried to simplify it for me, though there were some things in astronomical engineering that just couldn't be broken down any further.

Whatever the project was, it sounded amazingly cool, but also extremely challenging. I could see it in his eyes that he was excited yet also quite tired. Alfred had been working longer hours as of late, and I knew that he enjoyed what he was doing, but it also broke my heart to see him so worn.

I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, having finished with my pizza long ago. It stopped him mid-sentence, and he stared at me for a bit before breaking into a grin and kissing me back, full-on. A little bit greasy, quite a bit messy, and all around Alfred.

Just the way I liked it.

Taking the pause to change the subject, I asked, "Have you been doing okay?"

"Hm? Yeah. Why?"

I shrugged, my expression half smile, half concern. "Nothing. You just seem tired. A bit stressed."

Alfred laughed and polished off the last slice, thoroughly wiping his hands on a napkin. He took a sip of his Coke to clear his mouth before nodding. "I guess you could say that. My mind has just been very occupied lately."

I nudged him with my shoulder playfully. "Oh? Have you been thinking about me too much recently?"

I had expected it to be a joke, but Alfred wasn't laughing it off. He was assessing me with one of his serious and thoughtful countenances, scanning over my face carefully and slowly, as if trying to put to memory every line, slope and curve. How mathematic (and so very like him).

"... Yes, actually," he replied, after some silence.

I blinked. "What?"

Fear gripped me in an instant, even though I knew it was irrational. The relationship we shared was far too loving and too deep for this to be the beginning of "The Breakup Talk," but still. I often had the thought that Alfred was simply so perfect that it was only a matter of time before he realized he needed someone else, someone better.

This is not to say that I was being self-deprecating. I knew I was intelligent and was doing quite well for myself. I wasn't stunning, but I was good looking enough, and I was also quite athletic (or at least athletic enough to keep Alfred satisfied in bed, which is a massive task unto itself, mind you. But that's the _last_ you'll ever hear from me about it).

Alfred continued to stare at me, and his lengthy silence made me think that perhaps my irrational fear wasn't so irrational after all. But this was too sudden, and I wasn't ready, and I hadn't sensed that anything was wrong up until now.

Opening my mouth, I was about to ask when Alfred abruptly stood up and offered me his hand.

"Come. I want to show you something."

Well, when you command me like _that_, Alfred, in your deep and alluring voice, how could I ever refuse?

I decided to save the questions for after this, trusting him in whatever he was doing. So I took his hand and went along with it, like I so often did. And in all those experiences where I simply closed my eyes and stepped with him, Alfred had never failed me yet.

We departed from his office, my hand still in his (it was no secret that he was gay and that he was dating "that bookish Englishman"). Wandering down several corridors, I kept my silence, even though questions were dying to jump right past my lips. It was a struggle, but when I saw just how scarily determined and serious Alfred's face was, I swallowed my curiosity. Maybe I didn't want to know what it was, if it was causing him to carry that expression._  
_

We finally rounded upon a set of white double doors, quite nondescript except for the label on the side that read "R-214, Digital Observatory." Wordlessly, Alfred peeked inside, saw that it was deserted, then gently pulled me in.

It was completely dark on the inside, and I couldn't see much, but somewhere near the door, there was a panel. I could hear Alfred flicking a series of flips and switches, pressing a few buttons and typing in something, and then, _voilà._

The room burst into stars.

I let out an involuntary gasp. The sudden magnificence of the room was quite terrifyingly grand in its beauty. I didn't know where the projector was, but there were stars everywhere. Some constellations I recognized, especially Cassiopeia, which I saw the instant the stars came up, but there were a great many others which Alfred had never explained. Yet.

"Alfred, this is—"

He held a finger up to my lips, gently silencing me as he stared at me with his flaming blue eyes. Even in the dim lighting of the room, his cerulean irises seemed to glow with an intensity I had seldom seen before. Whatever the reason for bringing me here, it definitely wasn't just to show me NASA's awesome projection system.

Alfred pulled me over to the middle of the hall, a sort of stage in the center of the ringed seats. I followed hesitantly, wondering just what he could have been up to. This room was wonderful and all, but did it really need to be greeted with such severity?

We sat down, our hands still clasped together. He stared at the stars for a bit as I stared right at him, searching his expression for some explanation. He didn't make me wait long.

"Remember how we used to go up on the roof at night, Arthur, and watch all the stars?" His tone was distant, as if he were reliving the memory right as he was speaking about it.

"Mm hm." I nodded, moving over so that I could lay my head upon his shoulder. He brought his arm up, taking on the position that we had so often assumed when stargazing before.

Alfred chuckled. "But then there were just too many lights in Boston and we never could really see much. Remember that?"

I nodded again. I remembered it all, each and every time as its own separate occasion. Sometimes we would sit beneath the sky and play cards, watch movies on his laptop, read, eat, and in general, just avoid the night as we made the world our own for the taking. Other times, however, we gave the universe our undivided attention. We would just sit silently for what felt like hours, taking in each other's company as we both internally compared our relationship to the stars. I don't know what conclusion Alfred ever came to, but to me, our relationship always won out. Sure, the universe was old, and it would last, but our relationship, our bond—well _that_ would be _forever_.

We sat in silence for a while, reminiscing over the old days. Things had been great then, but they were even better now. Beside me, I could hear Alfred inhale with so deep a breath that his body shook ever so slightly. He released it in one go and squeezed my shoulder, almost as if using me to hold him steady.

"Arthur… We've been through a lot together, right?"

"Yeah…" I answered slowly, coming back out of my own nostalgic daydreams.

"And you want us to keep experiencing more things together, yeah?"

"Of course," I said, shooting him a quizzical glance. Alfred sure loved to ask the redundant questions, didn't he?

He pushed me away ever so slightly so that he could get a good look at me, and I saw that his smile was tentative and unsure. That was so uncharacteristic of Alfred that it brought all those fears from earlier flooding back to me once again. But he was smiling. _Smiling_. Surely, it couldn't have been a bad thing, then.

"So, uhh… well…"

I stared at him, nodding for him to go on. Things were rarely this hard for him to say, considering he was often so honest and sure in himself that words were almost always bursting from his lips, not able to escape fast enough.

Alfred sighed and fished around in his pocket for a bit until he managed to pull out the laser pointer pen that I had given him for Christmas last year. There wasn't much of a daily use for it, as far as I could tell, but he had seemed to enjoy chasing geckos around with one while we were vacationing in Thailand so much that I couldn't _not_ get one for him the following Christmas. And the look on his face when he opened the gift (plus the amazing, err, sex afterward) was more than worth it.

Alfred fiddled around with the pen for a bit until he finally got the setting he wanted (I might have forgotten to mention that I had given him one of the fancier types that could very well probably work as their down disco ball if they so desired). He pointed it at a section in the "sky" circling around a relatively dark area.

"Okay. See that over there?"

This didn't seem like the appropriate time for an astronomy lesson, but I nodded nevertheless, waiting eagerly to see where he was going with this.

"Yeah," I murmured, breathing in his distinctively inviting smell.

"That's the Corona Borealis. In Greek mythology, it represents a crown given to Ariadne by Dionysus when… uhh… when they got married."

His voice grew quiet, and he coughed a bit, but I didn't notice. Greek mythology interested me, and this was an area we hadn't reached yet in my (severely lacking) knowledge of astronomy, so I sat up a bit to listen more attentively. Alfred shifted with me, though he still kept a tight hold around my shoulders, and I still had a vague feeling that he was still leaning more on me than I was on him.

"Well, right underneath that," he continued, his voice a bit shaky (or was that just my imagination, since I was suddenly feeling quite excited myself?). "Under there, to the left… I, uh…"

Alfred squeezed me close and planted a soft kiss right in my hair, causing me to shiver.

"I named a star after you, Arthur."

I pulled away from him to get a better look at his eyes, my own eyes wide open with surprise.

"You what?"

Alfred chuckled sheepishly and looked away, and in the dull lighting from the stars, I could still see that he was blushing.

"I mean," he amended, "it's official name is B-4-something-or-other (or was it C6?). Whatever. I've got the registry papers somewhere."

He glanced up at me, smiling ever so slightly. "It's official name doesn't matter. What matters is its _real_ name." He poked at my nose with his forefinger, as if I needed any indication whom he had meant.

I still couldn't quite swallow it, though. What sort of boyfriend did something so grand yet silly and romantic at the same time?

"Let me get this straight," I murmured, looking right into his eyes. "There's a star somewhere out there, near the Corona Borealis, named Arthur Kirkland?"

Alfred averted his eyes and the crimson on his cheeks darkened.

"Err… Well, no."

And just like that, I was right back to being confused. I mean, I had been very much so right from the beginning of this whole excursion, but now it was complete.

"But you just said—"

"It's not named 'Arthur Kirkland,'" he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he clearly thought about something with intense concentration. Alfred brought his arm back up to hold me once again, though this time it was a full on embrace. He laid his head upon my shoulder and breathed in deeply.

"It's named…" And then there was some inaudible muttering.

Bloody _hell_, Alfred.

"Come again?" It was all I could do to keep from shaking him in impatience. The suspense was killing me.

Alfred took another, shuddering breath. He sat there in silence for a bit, and I swear time had never passed more excruciatingly slowly than it had then.

"Alfr—"

"The star is named Arthur Jones."

The floor dropped out from beneath me. I was definitely sure I had heard him wrong.

"What?" I asked, sounding far more stupid than intended. I just couldn't quite stomach the_sound_ of the name, let alone the implications that followed it.

"It's named Arthur Jones," Alfred repeated, louder this time. And that little statement seemed to open the floodgates for the whole explanation.

"There's another star somewhere near there too," he continued, words rushing out before I could even get one syllable in, "a star in the same system, and I'm quite sure they orbit each other, actually, in a sort of—ah, but the physics would bore you. Whatever." He squeezed me tightly.

"What's important is that there's another star near yours that I also named Alfred Kirkland, so don't you worry about 'being the woman of this relationship' or something."

"Alf—"

"I mean, I'll gladly take on your name if that's what you want. I always thought that'd be kind of sweet, actually, since then I could always carry a part of you with me—"

"Alfr—"

"Although I guess I'm getting ahead of myself, since you haven't even accepted, but then again, I technically haven't asked. I just wanted it to be—"

"_Alfred_."

I pushed him away from me ever so slightly, hoping that the action would slow him down. I took advantage of his temporary disorientation and leaned in, kissing him before he could continue. I didn't know what sort of a face he pulled in response, because my eyes were closed as I savored the sensation of kissing him once again under the stars, even if they were digitally generated lights.

Eventually, he seemed to relax too, coming to just enjoy the kiss like I was. No complications and no worries.

Just two lovers spending a night alone with the universe.

I don't now how long it was until I finally pulled away, but when I did, Alfred leaned after me, as if chasing for more. Well, there would be plenty more where that came from, but I still had a slew of questions swimming around my head, impatient for answers. They needed addressing first.

"Alfred," I murmured, as I leaned my forehead against his, our noses touching. He was quiet, but at least he was looking at me. That was a decent start.

"Alfred I—"

I guess something in my eyes or my tone must have inspired him, because he suddenly turned and pulled away from me.

"Wha—"

"Can you stand up, Arthur?"

More surprises. Well, if I was in this, then I was in it for the long run. With a bemused glance, I stood up, and Alfred stood up right along with me. He straightened his dress shirt for a brief moment, and before I could ask again, he looked at me and silenced my lips with the burning passion behind his eyes.

"Before you answer, I want to do this the right way," he explained dropping to one knee, a ring suddenly materialized in his hands.

With eyes that twinkled brighter than any star ever could, he smiled up at me and murmured the words which I knew I would never forget.

"Arthur Kirkland, will you allow me the honor of marrying you, and being the one man you can always depend on to make you happy?" He chuckled and added, "I'm a hard worker, dear. I'll do my job well, I promise."

I wasn't crying. I _swear _I wasn't crying.

Okay, maybe my eyes were a tad bit wet, but how could I not tear up as I stared right back at those eagerly loving eyes? These were the smouldering eyes of a man ready to dedicate his whole life to me—and dear Lord, was that fear I saw somewhere in there? Did he really think I was going to refuse?

My silent exuberance must have scared him, because his brows immediately furrowed and his hands lowered ever so slightly. He had the _audacity_ to look crestfallen. Ladies and gentlemen, my idiot of a boyfriend.

I mean, fiancé.

"I know it's sudden, Arthur," Alfred began, "and I know I didn't ask you when I just went ahead and named those stars, but I just thought that it was about time we moved things forward. I mean, I love you, and you lov—"

"Shhh." Alfred tried to talk, but another shush from me silenced him again.

I knelt down in front of him so that we were relatively eye level, then I took his hands in mine, the ring box jumbled somewhere in the middle of it all. Slowly, and with great care, I leaned in and kissed him, a chaste and sweet touching of the lips.

Before he could say much else, I took the chance and said, voice trembling with joy, "Yes, Alfred. I would love to—" Oh who was I kidding, trying to be calm about it? My countenance broke into a grin.

"_Of course_ I would marry you, you idiot!"

I flung my arms around him and hugged him close, unable to hold myself back any longer. Through the countless kisses with which I peppered his face, and the strength and ferocity with which I embraced him, I hoped I conveyed well enough just how much of a big, emphatic 'YES' that was. God yes, I would marry him. In the words of the ever eloquent American citizenry, _abso-fucking-lutely_.

I couldn't tell if Alfred was laughing or crying as he slid the ring onto my finger. Perhaps it was a combination thereof, because I sure was doing both. I found myself very short for breath, and so I flopped back to lie upon the ground, pulling Alfred with me. I stared at the spot in the sky where our two stars were supposed to be, unable to help my grinning expression. Beside me, Alfred was still laughing, wiping at his eyes as he pulled me close to him. Romantically spooning under the digitally generated stars in a NASA building: definitely what we did best.

When I had finally calmed down enough to speak again, I cleared my throat and snuggled further into Alfred's muscular arms. A perfect fit, if I may say so myself.

"You know, I already gave you my hand long ago," I murmured with a slight hiccup.

Alfred nuzzled his nose into my hair, ticking the back of my neck and causing me to laugh once again.

"You have?" he breathed, right into my ear. Hell, if he kept this up, it wouldn't be long until I would rip his clothes off and let him have me right then and there—and though sex with him under the stars _was _on my bucket list, involving NASA in our affairs wasn't.

Thus, still laughing, I edged away from him ever so slightly, and he let me go. I knew exactly why, considering I could feel the reason poking against my thigh from behind, hard and firm. Alfred was quite in danger of breaking his self control as well.

"Mm hm," I hummed, nodding. "I have done so, Alfred Forgetful Jones."

"Hey!" he exclaimed in mock offense. "There are just too many memories, that's all. Maybe it's a good thing I can't remember then, right?"

I laughed. "This is a pretty important moment, though." I turned around so that I could face him, and I brought a hand up to his face to stroke his cheek.

"Let me give you a hint, love." Leaning over, I whispered, "As I recall, you were barely old enough to legally ride the swings on your own."

I smiled with smug satisfaction as realization passed over Alfred's expression. I knew he hadn't forgotten. Alfred had an incredible mind that could hold countless facts and pieces of information, and no matter what might have slipped out from new things being crammed in, I was positive that no part of our relationship would ever get lost in the process.

Alfred chuckled. "Wow, I guess you're right," he murmured nostalgically. He shivered, likely remembering the frosty rain pouring on that dreary afternoon.

"See, Alfred? I wasn't lying when I said I had otherworldly powers. I knew this would happen. I was psychic even then," I boasted jokingly.

Alfred pulled me back closer to him again. "I never said you weren't magical, honey," he whispered, as he planted a soft kiss right upon my forehead, the gentle sincerity of it still causing me to blush even after all these years.

We laid there for Lord knows how long, kissing, reminiscing, sharing in this breathtaking and unbelievable experience that we both had come to call "love."

As we spoke, I often looked back up at the spot where our stars were supposedly encircling each other, their gravitational pull too strong to let go of one another.

Even now, decades later, I still look up there almost every night. I would often speak to the sky, tell it about my day, and I liked to imagine that somewhere way up there, Alfred's star would be twinkling right back at me, acknowledging the problems I had and telling me to go on. Because Lord knows I had many problems, but that's a story for later. For now, I was just happy that Alfred Kirkland and Arthur Jones existed somewhere up there, orbiting one another for millennia to come. How apt.

But that name! _Arthur Jones_. That had such a beautiful ring to it.

I hadn't realized that something felt off about my name until I was offered this new one, and now that it was here, it was obvious that nothing else would work. How could I have been so blind for upwards of twenty years?

Then again, that was what Alfred did best, wasn't it? Bring clarity to the lives of those around him, I mean. The light that shone from his heart was absolutely dazzling in its brilliance. How lucky was I that that such a bright beacon had elected to light up _my_ path, of all places?

Life with Alfred was a surprise each day, every moment filled with some little gem or another, meant to be treasured above all else. As I said, things so far had been fantastic, but now that I was going to be married to this beautiful soul, tied to him forever, life was going to be downright incredible.

Of course, how was I supposed to know at this point that "downright incredible" would have only been defined by just a few more days?

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Again, I don't work for NASA, but my godparents do. All that I've written here is from my experience with them. If there's anything to correct, please let me know (and I have no idea about the Digital Observatory. I'm sure they have one, but I just don't know where it is).

And yes, I already know that Continental Pizza is not on the way between Reston and NASA's offices in D.C. I just like their pizza anyway uwu.

- Galythia


	6. Fatal

**Fatal**

* * *

Alfred's body slammed into mine with a force stronger than any I had ever encountered from him in the past. Alfred had always been powerful and confident with his actions, but even before the time of gentle caresses and small, soft kisses, he had never _hurt_ me before. He had never struck me to the ground, knocked the wind out of me, and sent sharp bullets of pain shooting up my whole body.

His touch had always been kind.

But yet, here I was, lying on the pavement, quite sure that I was bleeding, with Alfred somewhere nearby (or was that the weight that was currently pressing down on me?). I couldn't tell, however, considering that my vision was also spinning, my head was throbbing with an intense pain, the likes of which I had never known before, and I couldn't quite keep track of all my limbs. It felt like I had none yet had thirty all at once.

I think I was quite numb as well, though it's been such a long time since then that I can barely remember now to write this. But I'm relatively sure that I could barely feel anything. There was some pain, but yet there wasn't any pain at all. I don't know how to describe it, but I think the injuries were just so great that my brain shut down its receptors for further sensations. I felt like I was floating, but I was also weighed down by the heaviest chain—probably as a result of the fact that Alfred really _had_ been lying on top of me.

I don't remember much of what happened next, but I can tell you the information that I received from the police report afterward. As you can probably tell by now, it was a traffic accident, and Alfred had rushed in to push me aside.

The _fool_.

There was blood everywhere, though Alfred and I were both still conscious. The car had apparently turned the corner without looking, speeding right into us as we crossed the road (with complete right of way, mind you). The driver had been injured too, though with the least harm out of the three of us. I hold nothing against Mr. Braginski now, although I did for quite some time, back in my younger days.

Anyway, lying there, I didn't know what they were doing to the man in the car, though there was a lot of yelling everywhere. It had taken them several tries to get Alfred off of me, and I wasn't really helping much by just staying limp, bleeding out upon the ground.

It was an oddly comfortable moment, actually. Alfred was on top of me, and I guess his blood, my blood, his body—everything together—it just felt so _warm_. It was a demented and macabre sort of heat, but I couldn't tell at the time. I remember feeling vaguely sleepy, as surprising as that sounds. All I could think of was Alfred, and that set my body and heart on fire in ways that no physical means ever could. I was in my own little blissful heaven, blocked off from the pain and shock for that moment.

I slipped in and out of consciousness, and at one point, I remember the weight being lifted off. There were sirens and voices everywhere, and someone asked me to look in a certain direction, but I don't think I did it correctly, because that's when things started happening at an alarming pace (or at least it was alarming for my shocked and lethargic mind).

There was a swinging sensation, a great feeling of vertigo as I felt the ground drop out from beneath me. Or was it that the sky was just falling down? Were the stars crashing together, the clouds spinning wildly, the universe breaking apart right before my very eyes?

I guess in a way, it was. Because from that day onward, my world would never be the same again.

Alfred was somewhere else at that point, lost in the fray. Part of me wondered if he was okay, but another part of me couldn't even remember why I was wondering that in the first place. What was there to worry about when I was drifting in and out of pure bliss, the image of Alfred's sweet smile in my mind to keep me company?

And then it hit me, like a great wave of nausea that follows food poisoning.

_"Arthur!"_

That was my name, echoing in my mind. It had been yelled, loudly and frantically, with a voice that was cracking with desperation.

Alfred's voice.

It repeated once again in my mind, louder this time, and I was gripped by a sudden mind-numbing fear I couldn't quite understand. It was disorienting—sickening, even. Apprehension flooded my body just as IV fluids flooded my bloodstream, and I think I might have even shook with anxiety and desperation.

I began to murmur Alfred's name, shifting around on the stretcher so much that they had to hold me down on the way to the hospital. But my mind was blank, a haze in which I knew nothing but the fact that I wanted to get to Alfred—I _needed_ to get to Alfred. Damn anyone who would stand in my way.

The fear didn't leave me until I lost consciousness once again, this time for good. The last thing I remembered seeing was a white tiled ceiling, periodically broken by blinding white lights. I think I might have mistaken it for heaven of some sort, and I was simply so terrified that I had gone on to the next life without Alfred. That somehow, I had left Alfred behind in this tragic occurrence, leaving without at least one final good bye.

I apparently kept murmuring Alfred's name even as my mind lost it once again. It was nice to know that even in the aftermath of an accident, during the rush of panicking officials and the alarming loss of blood, my final word was still Alfred's name, my final thought still of his beaming smile, the touch of his gentle hands. If it was heaven, then at least I was going out in the right way.

This all comes from what people told me later, of course. I'll give you an award if you can be in an accident that painful and traumatizing and still remember details like that—_decades_ later.

The incident actually wasn't all that horrible, though, in hindsight. It just felt worse because I was right in the middle of the fray, caught up in all the complications (not to mention a few of my ribs were practically shattered, and my leg was badly broken, as I later found out). It was a wonder that I had been even awake enough to register as much as I did.

We had been walking from dinner when it happened, on a nice but rare evening out. It was in celebration of Alfred's impending promotion of sorts; he was going to finally lead his own project (this is that same project I had mentioned earlier, though he was only one of the "underlings" then).

We went out to a newly opened Indian restaurant nearby. Alfred wasn't as picky about fine cuisine as I was, but he humoured me every so often. Thus, he let me pick, even though it was for his sake that were were dining out that day.

The dinner itself had been a pleasant affair. We were still getting used to referring to each other as fiancés in our minds, it having only been about a week since Alfred had proposed. But to the both of us, it felt so delightfully right, so perfectly fitting that we used it at any opportunity we had.

It was something like this:

_"Alfred, what are your plans this weekend?"_

_"Oh, nothing all that extravagant. Just canoeing on the Potomac with my fiancé."_

Or—

_"Arthur, can you get to me the newly drafted contract by Tuesday?"_

_"I can try, but I'll make no promises. I promised my fiancée I'd visit his parents with him on Sunday."_

See? That term made itself into front-and-center in our lexicon quite quickly, but how could we help it? We were both excited to no end.

And then, when Alfred found out about his promotion to head of his project, he almost cried. This is not a hyperbole in _any_ sense, I can assure you. Alfred cried more often than one would think, though he got worked up about the silliest things sometimes (no McDonald's in rural Cambodia was quite a tragedy, apparently).

And so he cried, and he practically swept me off my feet in a tight bear hug when he had revealed the big news. We were both absolutely ecstatic about the change, and obviously for no reason more strongly than that of our impending wedding. We didn't want to be engaged forever; the sooner we could get married, the better. And of course, a good wedding that involved everything we wanted would cost some money (not to mention the world traveling we wished to do beforehand).

Thus, we thought it apt to celebrate the development in style with some fancy Indian cuisine. And it was from that restaurant, while walking home (a decently long distance, but it was a clear night, and you ought to know by now how much we loved the stars), that the accident occurred.

Through the mess of things, I didn't end up waking until the next afternoon, only to find myself in the whitewashed and dreadfully pristine "heaven" that was actually one of the hospital care wards. By bed felt incredibly cold, despite the duvet that was currently thrown over me. That was probably because I had never spent a night away from Alfred's side unti that night for the past six years.

It took me a bit to get oriented, considering I was assaulted by pain the moment I woke up. My mind was sluggish, likely from the morphine or some other medication they gave me for my pain (Harvard was known for law, not med). It was a few minutes before I even realized that my leg was elevated, and that most of the pain was stemming from that and my burning torso. The throbbing migraine didn't help matters either.

I'd seldom ever been inside a hospital room, since I was fortunate enough to have a family with a solid medical history. Both parents still intact, my own body functioning for the most part—life was good. And heck, even Alfred was—

What _had_ happened to him, actually? What had happened to me, for that matter?

_"Arthur!" _

_The sound of screeching tires. Something crashing. Breaking glass. Something else hitting the ground. Messy sounds and jumbled colors—and an uncannily comfortable amount of warmth._

I groaned and brought an arm up to cover my eyes, or at least made a move to do so, before the the excruciatingly stabbing pain put that plan to a stop.

My headache was already worsening, and I closed my eyes, struggling to find that floating peace once again. It seemed like a far off, distant memory, yet also so close and familiar at the same time. It was warm and inviting, and I would have rather had it back any day over these cold and hard white walls.

"Alfred," I groaned, my voice stuck in my throat. I really needed some water, otherwise I'd have just been croaking inaudibly for the rest of my (hopefully brief) moment of consciousness.

Searching around ever so slowly, I finally found the control panel and fished around for the button that would ring up a nurse and pressed it.

And pressed it.

And pressed it.

Hell, was the service in hospitals always this terrible? It was no wonder people disliked being cooped up in such an uncomfortable place. A few more days here and I was sure I'd be driven insane. The faster I could return home and resume life with Alfred, the better.

At long last, a woman finally came, looking flushed from running and vaguely annoyed that I had been so impatient. Well, if I was paying exorbitant money to be here, then it had better been worth it. I felt no remorse whatsoever on that standpoint.

What _did_ get me, though, was the look on her face even after she had stepped in. Upon closer inspection, it seemed less like irritation and more like... unwillingness.

Unwillingness to be the bearer of bad news.

Fear instantly gripped my body, to the point where I found it quite hard to breathe. Blood was pounding in my ears, my chest so tight I thought my heart would burst right open and spill all of my anxieties onto the ground. Even before she opened her mouth to say anything, I somehow already knew. I already knew and I didn't want to hear it.

Something had to have happened to Alfred. Maybe he was in the hospital, just like me. Perhaps he had more broken ribs than I did. Maybe his whole side had been smashed to pieces. Dear lord, what if he was paralyzed?

I didn't want to hear any of it, and my face was scrunching up to throw a fit. But the nurse had seen that coming, and before I could do much of anything else, she let the words tumble out. It was a jumbled mess of syllables that I couldn't even register for a few minutes, but she had said it. Clearly. Loudly.

Irrevocably.

I swear right then and there that my heart really _had_ burst, and that my innards had all but splattered itself everywhere upon the ground. My inside was a mess of sensations (and in hindsight, whose brilliant idea had it been to tell me right off the bat like that?).

I was trembling, shaking. I could feel it yet I couldn't feel it (or anything whatsoever) at the same time. My body was acting on its own, due to the fact that my mind was already gone, deep into the throes of shock and denial.

Because, as it turns out, I was the _last_ to find out that Alfred (Formidable, Fierce, Fearless) Jones—

—Had died.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

It wasn't like you didn't see this coming. So no tears. :T

And I'm sorry. I'm terribly unhappy with this chapter, since I feel like it deserves so much more weight and explanation, but I can't do it. I'm running out of 24-hour time right now, which I know is a crazy thing I imposed upon myself, but I still want to do it nevertheless!

One more chapter to go, guys!

- Galythia


	7. Finish

_Dear readers,_

_My name is Belle DeJaeger. I regret to say that I have to take over from here, though there isn't much I have to add to the story. What you read was as far as Mr. Kirkland has written. However, he is currently in no state to write much else. His case of Alzheimer's has progressed to a severe point now, and it is only a matter of time before he passes away (quite peacefully, or as peacefully as any man so haunted as him ever could)._

_I am not knowledgeable about his life, but after reading this, I felt like I owed it to him to complete it to the best of my ability, even though I don't plan on writing much else. His words are beautiful just as they are, though I will try to give you some closure._

_It has taken him all of seven years to write out what you saw here, and I have watched him do it every step of the way. I have never read it until now, however, right before sitting down to write this note. He has kept his notebook in highly protective secrecy right from the very beginning, though he gradually became more bitter and covetous about it as time wore on and he progressed into seniority._

_Perhaps you might have noticed, but with each passing chapter, he lost more of his humor and, in my opinion, began to sound more and more sad and sour. Maybe it was because he knew what was coming, and that this story was nearing its end, but I also think that it was because he could see that he was nearing his own end himself._

_That's why he was in a rush to write down whatever he could before his mind moved beyond the point of being able to recall even his own name. It has taken him seven years, however, because one sentence could have taken him weeks to write, even the happy ones (some sad ones could have taken months). Mr. Kirkland always had a sentimental heart, no matter how much he denied it, and any piece of memory could send him off into his own daydreams for hours, with no writing done whatsoever._

_But because he was such a perfectionist, whatever writing he did end up doing was drafted and redrafted over and over again. He would sit in the corner, ostracized from the rest of the members of our home for elderly care, writing and scowling to himself as he erased, crossed out, and rewrote (I am his designated caretaker, by the way, as I have been for the past eight years). _

_Mr. Kirkland knew he was slow, he knew that his old and shaking fingers were failing him, just as his mind was doing the same. He hated it. I could see that, especially in the times when he was so frustrated and helpless that he would fling his notebook across the room, tears in his eyes, only to rethink it and hobble back over to pick it up once again. He would let no one retrieve it for him, either. It was a journey he had to take on his own, like so many others in his past, living such a lonely life._

_To a person so intelligent, so used to knowing anything and everything about a grand variety of subjects, a disease like Alzheimer's must have been terrifying. It probably was even scarier than usual because Mr. Kirkland would have been smart enough to have done his research thoroughly and completely. He knew what was coming for him, and he also knew that there wasn't much hope. There was no one there to lie to him and tell them it was okay, because it honestly wasn't._

_But like the strong man that he was, and the strong man that I've come to admire him for being, he swallowed it and continued with his life as if something like that was nothing to him. He worked until he could no longer remember exactly where his house was, which was when one of the neighbors finally saw it fit to admit him to us, for he had no close, surviving relatives. The relatively good wealth he made from his successful companies (yes, he owned quite a few) was more than enough to give him the comfortable care he needed._

_Mr. Kirkland never married, and I think he considered himself to be a widow, rather than a bachelor. So perhaps I should say that he never_ remarried_. He never took off his ring in any situation, and often threw a fit if anyone came close to even touching that hand. And since he didn't talk much about his past (I didn't even know about half of this story until reading this now, and I've been his closest confidant in recent times), many people wrote him off for a hopeless nut-case._

_But I knew better._

_Mr. Kirkland was not defined by his mental illnesses (for there were many, Alzheimer's and severe depression being just two of all that was stacked against him). He was still intelligent, alert and active even at the age of eighty. Sometimes I pitied him for living so long, especially now that I know that meant some sixty odd years of deep-rooted pain and loneliness. He might have been a person who was open to admitting many things on paper, but he'd never say any of that in person. He always viewed his problems as solely his own, and it took me years to convince him otherwise._

_There were times, later on in our relationship, where he would tell me the greatest stories about when he was young. He never touched upon any time before his thirties, however, and when I asked about it, he would reply with single-word responses, or just not reply at all. _

_But at least I knew about Alfred Jones. I knew because there was no way Mr. Kirkland could keep silent about him forever. There were times when he wouldn't realize it, but he'd let small, simple things slip, like how Mr. Jones liked his coffee with two sugars and half a tablespoon of cream, or like how Mr. Jones always liked to get his knights out by the third move in chess, otherwise he considered the game a lost cause._

_It was clear that Mr. Jones was the love of his life, the reason behind the ring. And I knew that Mr. Jones had passed away, but of course, I had no idea about how (or any of the rest of his story) until now, after reading Mr. Kirkland's words._

_The reason that I'm even here at all is because, as I mentioned, his mind has left him. He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror anymore, he doesn't remember why he's even here, or where "here" even is._

_There are two notable differences, however, which never cease to make me smile when I think about them. First, Mr. Kirkland still remembers to make a stop by Mt. Auburn cemetery every Saturday, even if he might not remember why anymore. He would just sit there, in front of a beautiful tombstone, whispering to himself the name inscribed upon the marble. He'd never touch it, though he did come close a few times, only to pull his hand away last minute._

_I would follow him there, with a book or something with which I could occupy my time, and then I would wait. He could have been there for minutes or hours, and the length would simply depended upon the day. But I could see that it was important, so I never gave him any rush to return. I knew that the residential home stifled him (which was again something he'd never admit, but I could see it in the way his eyes softened every time he stepped outside)._

_The second difference is that every night, Mr. Kirkland would still go out onto the deck and gaze up at the sky. He used to speak and say things, even laugh every so often, but now, he just stands there silently, watching. Mr. Kirkland never cries, but it's only when he's looking up at the stars that I can see his eyes water up just a bit._

_I believe that that pair of orbiting stars is twinkling right back at him as well._

_Mr. Kirkland might have forgotten his own name, but he never forgot the name of his love. Even though his gaze would stare blankly at the scenery before him, as his mind struggled fruitlessly to remember what he was doing, or where he was standing, Mr. Kirkland never failed to know the name of Alfred F. Jones. He would sometimes murmur it in his sleep, that being the only time he would ever smile in recent months. And now that I've read this notebook (with his express permission, though I don't think he remembers), I can see why the name lingers on in his mind. __What they had was one-of-a-kind, too strong and too beautiful to be forgotten. I think Mr. Kirkland said it best when he wrote that what they had "simply was." _

_It was, is, and forever will be._

_I don't have much else to add. Mr. Kirkland is now eighty-four. He hasn't written in this book for a year now, except for one last piece, which I think was supposed to be the ending, though I found it on the first page. So I will leave it here for you to read, in hopes that Mr. Kirkland had been right in this prologue, that this story has touched you and changed you for the better. _

_I can say with certainty that it has definitely changed me._

_Live peacefully,  
Belle DeJaeger_

* * *

This is a story about my life—a life which has been full of so many wonderful and happy moments that I will never wish to exchange it for any other. I live with no regrets, just as I know I will die with no regrets. _That_ is the last thing on my bucket list, and I want to do it and do it well. That is because the rest the list is one which I will never be able to complete, due to the fact that it banks on the impossible. Resurrection.

But I have lived a fortuitous life. I attended a wonderful set of schools, made some very kind friends, established quite a few successful businesses, and I even ran my own publishing company for a while. One could say that I am quite lucky, and I would definitely agree. My life has been only made up of the very best components, and I will boast of that to anyone who would ever listen.

This is not a tragedy, though, as I will say over and over again. Perhaps you understand by now what I mean. In the seventy five or so years that I've lived, seventy five or so years of that have been great, and nearly two decades of that has been sheer and utter magnificence.

I mean, honestly, I was engaged to Alfred F. Jones. _Alfred Fucking Jones_, ladies and gentlemen. I got to spend more days with him than anyone else ever had or ever will. I was his best friend, his closest confidant—I was his _lover_. I still am.

And if you tell me that that fact, in and of itself, doesn't automatically make my life the best one to have ever existed, then you are simply insane to the point where no mental institution could ever hold you.

But if you agree, then we've still got quite a bit to talk about, but not that much time. Let me just say, then, that Alfred was and is far larger than any of us puny little humans. He was my fiancé, but he was also an amazing engineer, a quirky inventor and a silly fool, if there ever was one. He was my best friend, but a good friend to so many others as well. He was the guy who would offer you a seat on the bus, even if you weren't old or pregnant or "needy" in any way—and he'd never ask for anything in return. He was—and is—greater than anything we could ever dream of, and as such, he lives on, even without our efforts. Forever.

Alfred Forever Jones. Now _that_ might just be my favorite of all of his names.

He is forever, and not just in my heart, and now not just in yours, but in the universe itself and beyond. He has returned to the earth, and I'm sure he'd be delighted to realize that he is just one step closer to reuniting himself with the state of stardust once again. He was, and is, a _colossal_ greatness. And as such, it is only right that he should at least outlive me. For it might not seem it, ladies and gentlemen, but it is not my story that is written upon these pages.

It is _his_.

And it was a story far too perfect not to tell.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Wow this last chapter hurt to write. I was crying myself, so I don't quite know how you guys are faring. This has been quite an intense 24-hour period of my life, and I need to take a break (which means Not-So-Classic Romance might need to wait at least a week). My emotions are just freaking out a bit right now, and I can't even bring myself to edit this last chapter all that well, so I'm sorry, but you'll have to make due.

But there you have it. This is the first tragedy I have ever written, so I don't quite know how I feel about it yet. Maybe it sucks, and I am just too caught up in it to see. But I'll return to it at another time and give it another once-over when I am less... touchy-feely about things.

I hoped you enjoyed it! Please leave a review to tell me what you think. You know I love hearing from you guys. :3

- Galythia


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